


What Remains

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Child Abuse, Dom!Phin, Dom/sub, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Heavy Angst, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Not actual rape, Open Relationships, P.T. Barnum is perfectly capable of loving Charity and Phillip at the same time, Phillip Carlyle Needs a Hug, Phillip Carlyle Whump, Polyamory, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sub!Phillip, but surely that's bad enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: Everyone is either a Dom or a sub. It is an ingrained part of who you are.Phillip first told his parents that he was a sub when he was five years old. But the Carlyle's will not have a sub for a son, even if it means molding him into something he was never meant to be.





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> It was inevitable that one day I would write a Dom/sub AU. I just never imagined it would be for this fandom. Yet, here we are.   
> Set in a world where everyone is either a Dom or a sub (or a switch). It is an ingrained part of society and a part of who you are. But Phillip's parents believe they can change him. 
> 
> WARNINGS: This fic gets dark. First few chapters especially go to some very dark places. Descriptions of child abuse throughout. The Noncon touching comes in at the end of chapter two and when Phillip is of age (but that makes it only marginally better).   
> It's a slow build to get to that happy ending.

                                                                      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover provided by the amazingly talented em3kitty


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was inevitable that one day I would write a Dom/sub AU. I just never imagined it would be for this fandom. Yet, here we are.  
> Set in a world where everyone is either a Dom or a sub (or a switch). It is an ingrained part of society and a part of who you are. But Phillip's parents believe they can change him. 
> 
> WARNINGS: This fic gets dark. First few chapters especially go to some very dark places. Descriptions of child abuse throughout. The Noncon touching comes in at the end of chapter two and when Phillip is of age (but that makes it only marginally better).  
> It's a slow build to get to that happy ending.

Phillip first learns what the words Dominant and submissive mean when he is five years old. He’s heard the terms used often enough but never really given much thought to what they truly meant. If he had thought about it, he’d have assumed that Dom meant male and sub meant female. That seemed to be how it worked. His father’s business associates are Doms, and they are men. They laugh loudly, shout louder, get steadily drunk on whiskey and are more than a little frightening if Phillip is honest. Their wives are subs and they sit with his mother and talk sedately, giggle behind their hands and sip wine, leaving pale lipstick ghosts behind on the glasses. Phillip is still young enough that his mother lets him sit with her while she talks to these women. Sometimes she’ll let him curl up beside her and rest his head in her lap, even though that’s not really how a young man should act when with company. She doesn’t seem to mind. She’ll stroke his hair and the other women will coo over him and say what a sweet little boy his mother has. The praise for her son makes her glow. Even at five, Phillip is sure he has never seen his mother smile like that from anything his father has ever said to her.

Dominant is his father’s study. It’s tobacco smoke and breath that smells like alcohol. It’s his father snapping at Phillip for disturbing him, for slouching, for disobeying.

Submissive is his mother’s sitting room. It’s her rose scented perfume and soft voices. It’s his mother not minding if he falls asleep resting against her while she talks.

Phillip doesn’t consider what it means that the latter feels like home to him. He’s a child. He’s allowed to be close to his mother and be a little afraid of his father.

It’s while he is in one of those precious moments, curled up beside his mother in her court of women, when Phillip first hears the word ‘submissive’ used to describe a man.

“Did you hear about the Kinsella’s oldest boy?” asks the woman sitting opposite his mother. She is sitting on the edge of her seat, her gloved hands clasped in front of her as though holding the tantalizing secret she so clearly itches to reveal.

“I thought he was away at university,” Phillip’s mother says. She leans forwards, cupping the side of Phillip’s head so that it is not dislodged from her knee as she picks up her glass. She sips quietly and settles back against the couch cushions.

“Well he is back, Evelyn, and causing quite the scandal too from what I’ve heard.”

There is a collective stirring around the room. All of the women sitting up just a little straighter. Phillip feels his mother’s fingers tense ever so slightly against him. He’s already learnt that ‘scandal’ is just about the most exciting word these women know.

“How so?” asks Phillip’s mother.

The woman opposite looks to the door where the sound of male talking drones on, before dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He is a submissive, Evelyn.” 

Everyone gasps. The woman to Phillip’s left raises a fluttering hand to her chest. Someone knocks over a glass and nobody bothers to mop up the spillage as they all whisper, whisper, whisper like a flock of sparrows tweeting. Phillip starts to sit up. His mother presses him back down.

“Violet,” she says, harsher that her usual demure tone allows. “Not in front of Phillip.”

“Phillip is too young to understand,” says the woman who must be Violet. Her cheeks are flushed as she looks around at the excitement her words have caused. Phillip can feel his own face reddening for reasons he can’t quite explain.

“Theodore wouldn’t approve,” is his mother’s clipped response. Phillip doesn’t need to look up to know that she too is glancing towards the door, to where his father’s voice rings out clearer than any other. Phillip shifts closer to his mother’s body.

“Approval has nothing to do with it,” Violet insists. “It is true. He does not deny it. He admits to it in fact.”

Phillip hears no more. His mother raises her hand to cover his ear, the other pressed against her skirts. With sound muffled, Phillip watches the women. Some of them look shocked. Others just look eager, as they probe Violet for more details. Phillip falls asleep long before the conversation changes.

After that, Phillip goes looking for answers. He finds them the next day in his parents’ library.

 _The Role of Dominants and the Place of submissives_ should be far beyond a five-year-old reading level, but this is Phillip. Phillip loves words. He loves the stories his nanny used to read to him at bed times. (They were stories which his father said he was getting too old for now, so instead Phillip had taken to crafting them himself, on scraps of paper, on the back of old pieces of schoolwork, inside his own mind where no one could see.) This passion, combined with his elite and highly sought after tutor see that the book is more than within Phillip’s capabilities.

He sits on the floor to read, the spines of the books he adores pressing up against his own. Phillip doesn’t realise it at the time but the book he has chosen is surprisingly progressive. It explains that being a submissive is natural for roughly half the population. It explains how a submissive acts, how they feel. Phillip reads the book cover to cover before he is called for dinner.

During dinner, Phillip cuts his food into small, even portions and announces to his parents that he thinks he is a sub. His mother’s fork drops to her plate with a clang. All colour has drained from her face. Something terrible has clearly just happened, but Phillip doesn’t know what.

His father places his cutlery down neatly and wipes the edges of his mouth with a napkin.  He gets to his feet. Phillip’s mother twitches, as though she might be about to stand too, but a single look from her husband stills her. He walks around the table unhurried and stands beside Phillip’s chair. For a long moment Phillip tries to avoid his gaze, keeping his eyes downcast to his barely-touched dinner. As the seconds tick by and his father continues to stand there, Phillip realises he has no choice in the matter and looks up at him. His father has never seemed taller than in that moment.

“Stand up.”

Phillip puts down his own knife and fork and pushes back from the table. The chair legs scrape, an unpleasant shriek in the quiet room. He stands in front of his father on legs which he is surprised still hold him up with how weak they feel.

His father backhands him across the face so hard that Phillip crashes to the floor. He lays there, unable to get back up, unable to understand what’s just happened. He dares to look up and his father is glaring down at him.

“I will not have a sub for a son, Phillip,” he hisses. “Do you understand that?”

Phillip blinks, the room swimming around him as tears gather in his eyes. He looks back at the table, at his mother. He wants her to stop this. He wants her to hold out her arms so that he can go running to her and be held while he cries. He wants her to at least look at him. Instead, she stares straight ahead, her expression passive and unreadable. She gives no indication of having seen her husband just strike her son. The only outward tell of whatever she is feeling is the slight tremor in her hand where it rests on the tablecloth.

Phillip cries out as his father grabs him by his hair and drags him to his feet. “I asked you a question, boy,” the older man snarls, bending so that his face is near level with Phillip’s. He’s tilting Phillip’s head back so that he can’t look away. The way Phillip clutches at his father’s wrist in a reflexive move to lessen the pain in his scalp means nothing to him. “Do. You. Understand?” He shakes Phillip with his words.

“Y-yes,” Phillip gasps, not because it’s true but because he knows it’s the answer least likely to lead to more punishment.

“You are a dominant, Phillip. And you will act like one.” Phillip’s father releases him with a jerk. Phillip staggers and nearly falls again. “Now get out of my sight. Go to your room before I make you.”

Phillip goes.

He’s no longer allowed to attend any of his mother’s gatherings after that. He doesn’t know if she told his father how he acted there, or about the Kinsella boy who is apparently, openly, a sub. All Phillip knows is that he never again gets to curl up beside his mother and feel her stroke his hair. She hardly touches him after that.

Mercifully, he is not expected to attend his father’s parties either. He is expected to go to his room and stay there until their guests have left or suffer the consequences.

A week or so after that disastrous dinner, Phillip’s father calls him to his study. Phillip’s heart hammers inside his chest the whole way. He knows he is dawdling, that he will only anger his father further. If he is indeed angry. Phillip cannot imagine a situation where his father calls him without being angry. When he gets to the study he knocks, quietly. The door is yanked open almost immediately.

“What took you so long, boy?” his father growls. He barely waits for Phillip to enter before slamming the door shut behind him and stalking back to behind his desk without waiting for an answer. He indicates the chair in front of his desk and Phillip takes a seat. It seems like a rather friendly move from his father, until Phillip realises that now his father looms over him even more than before. Phillip would dearly love to be able to turn invisible under that glare.

“Phillip,” his father says, voice clipped. “This is Mr Stevens.” He gestures towards the fireplace and only now does Phillip realise there is someone standing there. Phillip jumps. The man just smirks at him and pushes himself away from the wall. He is a very tall man, taller than Phillip’s father. He is broader too, his stance and his way of moving making him seem larger still.

Phillip swallows back any anxiety and tries to be polite. “H-Hello,” he says, quietly.

Mr Stevens barks out a rough laugh. “Dominants do not stutter, kid. And speak up so that I can hear you.”

No one other than his father has ever spoken to Phillip in that way before. He turns back to his father now, hoping for some kind of clarification. Part of Phillip wants to say that he’s not a dominant, but he can remember the pain from his father’s hand across his face. He does not like this man’s hands; they twitch when he speaks to Phillip as though he yearns to hit the boy in front of him.

Mr Carlyle has been watching the interaction between the two closely. He does not seem overly concerned by this stranger talking to his son in this manner. “Mr Stevens is to be your tutor,” he explains.  

“I already have a tutor,” Phillip says in protest. Normally he wouldn’t be so bold, but he likes his tutor. “He teaches me English and languages and mathematics and-”

“Not that kind of tutor, idiot boy.” Phillip’s father is losing patience with him. Phillip recognises that tone of old. He shuts up quickly. “Mr Stevens is here to teach you how to behave as you should.”

Phillip is confused. He doesn’t think he has been especially bad lately. “I-I don’t understand,” he mumbles, before remembering what Mr Stevens just said about stuttering. He can feel himself going pink as his father continues to glower at him. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles. It is not a pleasant smile. It puts chills into Phillip’s bones.

 “Mr Stevens,” Mr Carlyle says casually, “is here to teach you how to behave as the _dominant_ that you are.”

Phillip’s eyes widen as he looks from his father to Mr Stevens and back. _I’m not a dominant_ , he wants to say. He’s too young to know what he is.

“If I may,” Mr Stevens cuts in with a slow drawl. “I think you’ll find that Phillip will understand things much better once we have started our lessons together.”

No one ever interrupts Mr Carlyle, or tries to correct him, in his own home. Phillip tenses, waiting for his father to shout and half hoping he will throw Mr Stevens out of his house. Instead, to Phillip’s bewilderment, he looks to be genuinely considering the other man’s words. He nods in agreement.

“Of course,” he says, looking at Mr Stevens but gesturing towards Phillip as though he is showing a servant a patch of floor which needs cleaning. “You can begin immediately.” He then goes back to the paperwork spread over his desk, his son and the stranger he has left him with no longer of any interest.

A hand grasps the back of Phillip’s shirt and hauls him out of the chair.

“Come on,” Mr Stevens barks as he shoves Phillip towards the door. “We’ll start with the way you walk.”

* * *

Phillip never imagined there was something wrong with the way he walked. He had been mistaken. He has apparently been doing it wrong all his life. 

"But don't worry," says Mr Stevens, sounding neither worried nor comforting. "We can soon change that." 

He takes Phillip to the drawing room and proceeds to make him walk so that he can pick apart everything Phillip is doing wrong. Not standing straight enough. Shuffling his feet. Looking down, not up.

He learns that he had not been wrong earlier. Mr Stevens' hands were apparently only too keen to strike at Phillip. 

The first time he does it, a sharp smack to the back of Phillip's head in punishment for looking down, Phillip stumbles to a stop. 

He rubs at his head and aims his voice at the floor. "Y-you can't hit me.” He tries to make himself sound as sure and confident as possible. But he doesn’t feel sure at all.  “My father w-wouldn’t allow it.”

“What did I tell you about stuttering, boy?”Mr Stevens raises his hand as if to strike Phillip again, stopping before making contact and laughing nastily at the way Phillip flinches. “And your father,” he strikes Phillip now, when he’s least expecting it, “will not just allow this. It is why he hired me. Because you need this. You deserve this.” He proceeds to grab Phillip’s upper arm to hold him in place. With the other hand he slaps the back of the young boy’s thighs four times in quick succession.  By the time he releases him, Phillip is crying with little hiccupping sobs. Mr Stevens sneers down at him. “Do not talk back to me. I may be teaching you to be a dominant, but you will still know your place around me. Now walk.”

He keeps Phillip walking for hours. He doesn’t let Phillip rest, or stop for food. He keeps going until, a long time later, he is finally satisfied that Phillip is making improvement.

“It’s a start,” he says, ominously. “We will continue tomorrow.”

Philip half stumbles back to his room. He wants to go to his mother, because he’s sure she would hold him close right now. But he also doesn’t want to be touched by anyone ever again.  

Over the weeks, months, that follow, Phillip learns all the things he has been doing incorrectly.

He walks like a sub.

He talks like a sub.

He acts like a sub.

But he cannot _be_ a sub.

The lessons are nearly every day to begin with. Apparently they are ‘making up for lost time’. Phillip has already unknowingly slipped into so many bad habits. They go down to a couple of times a week over time but they never go away.

(Phillip’s real tutor, the one who teaches him about languages and numbers and history and things, comments on the sudden change in behaviour. He raises a concern with Phillip’s parents that he is becoming more withdrawn, is distracted and losing focus in his lessons where previously he excelled. That tutor is dismissed and Phillip is caned by his father for not concentrating in his lessons. A succession of other tutors follows. None of them stay for long enough for Phillip to grow a rapport with them, or for them to suspect there might be more to his attitude than spoiled sullenness.)

Phillip keeps thinking the lessons with Mr Stevens will end if he just fakes it. If he does what he’s supposed to and acts like a dom. But there’s always something he forgets, something he is not quite good enough at hiding.

It does not get any easier the longer the lessons go on for. The punishments for messing up just get harsher.

One of the worst comes when he is eight.

Phillip doesn’t really have friends. Any one he interacts with is monitored carefully. His parents – his father – do not want him to be corrupted by any outside influences he might encounter. So, he is pretty much limited to the sons of his father’s colleagues, and Phillip doesn’t think much of them. At best, they are dull, uninterested in any of the things Phillip is. (And Phillip is already having a hard time interacting with other people; he’s too aware of saying the wrong thing so he says very little at all and people find it unnerving.) At worst, they act like miniature versions of their fathers and send Phillip’s heart hammering in his chest.

Then he meets Alexander.

He’s the nephew of one of his mother’s friends, and that instantly makes Phillip like him more than any of the other boys he is forced to spend time with. He’s a couple of years older than Phillip, tall for his age too, but not in a way that makes Phillip want to cower. The two boys are sent off to play, to be out of the way, and as soon as they are out of the room Alexander grabs Phillip’s hand and pulls him along behind, off on a daring quest to steal treasure from a dangerous dragon (or to sneak food from the kitchen).

Alexander doesn’t seem to mind Phillip’s quietness. He is loud and bold enough for the both of them. So loud in fact that several times Phillip winces, looking over his shoulder for, listening out for his father’s angered voice telling them to shut up now or else. Alexander doesn’t mind that Phillip doesn’t really have any clue how to play and makes it easy for him; all Phillip has to do is scramble along behind him, and try not to get left behind.

Alexander is something of a human whirlwind and for one magical afternoon he transports Phillip along in his wake. They play for hours. They go charging out into the garden on the trail of an elusive lion (the neighbour’s cat). They sword fight with sticks. Alexander asks Phillip to call him Ally but that seems incredibly informal and impolite to Phillip. He doesn’t call Alexander anything at all for the most part. At some point, Alexander shoves Phillip playfully, and Phillip feels brave enough to shove back. They wrestle, giggling and squirming and Alexander holding back so that he doesn’t flatten Phillip in the first few seconds. 

The air smells thick with pollen. The heat will be overbearing in a few days but for now it is pleasant against Phillip’s skin. He feels as though he may have fallen into one of his stories. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to him.

At some point, their wrestling tips them over onto the grass. And Phillip tires of struggling. He lets himself go limp.

“Victory!” Alexander crows as he pins Phillip to the floor.

“Yeah,” says Phillip, his soft voice almost taken by the breeze. “You win.”

Alexander holds him there, still sitting above Phillip and looking into his eyes. Phillip’s chest feels suddenly constricted in a way that has nothing to do with panic or fear.

“Hey, Phillip,” Alexander sounds hesitant for the first time that day. “Do you want to practice something?”

“Like what?”

“It’s something I saw my sister doing. Want to try it?”

Alexander doesn’t get more specific than that, but Phillip nods. He doesn’t know where this is going, but in that moment he thinks he would follow Alexander into the den of a real lion if he asked.

Alexander nods slowly, taking in the acceptance on Phillip’s face. He starts to lower himself, hands still covering Phillip’s but no real force behind them. It’s a loose hold, more symbolic than anything. Phillip could pull away if he wished. He does not wish. He just wants to keep looking into Alexander’s eyes as their faces gets closer. Their lips get closer.

They never meet.

“Phillip Carlyle! _What_ do you think you are doing?!”

Phillip lets out a genuine squeak of fear. He has never heard his father sound so enraged. Alexander is frozen above him for a moment, held in Phillip’s view like a portrait that he will keep for years afterwards, before he is yanked away. Phillip is still prone on his back, looking up at the sky, so he doesn’t see exactly what his father does to Alexander. He hears the sharp familiar crack and Alexander’s yell of pain.

 “No!” Phillip hears himself begging, scrambling to his feet. “No, stop!”

Alexander is clutching the side of his face, tears streaming from his eyes. Phillip’s father is standing over him, hand raised, and the sight spurs Phillip to try a truly dominant manoeuvre for the first time. He throws himself in front of Alexander and holds his stick thin arms out.

“Don’t hurt Ally,” Phillip cries. He feels that he is floating above himself, scared and shaking and looking down at another Phillip, daring to stand up to his father.

For all the bravery it takes, for all that is perhaps the least submissive act of Phillip’s young life, it does him no good.

 “You,” his father spits, advancing on him. “I thought we were teaching you better than this. Clearly it is not sinking through your thick skull.” 

He does not hit Phillip in front of Alexander. Instead he grabs Phillip’s arm hard enough that a perfect circle of bruises will form within hours. He starts towards the house, yanking Phillip along behind him. 

Phillip’s last memory of Alexander is of him running along beside them.

“No, no,” the elder boy is begging, and if Phillip turns to look at him he may break his own arm in his father’s grip. “No, Sir, it was my fault. It was me. Don’t punish Phillip, don’t.”

“Do not speak to me,” Phillip’s father roars. “Do not speak to my son, or come near him, ever again.”

They reach the house and Alexander disappears from Phillip’s life, the door slammed shut in his face. The first, truest, only friend Phillip has ever had is gone.

There is little time for Phillip to dwell on his loss. That will come later, when he is alone and trying to stifle his sobs in the night. Right now, Phillip has more pressing worries. The rage on his father’s face. The way he does not stop yelling at him and Phillip is so petrified he can’t even make out the words at this point.

“Theodore?”

Phillip’s father comes to an abrupt halt. They are standing outside of the sitting room, Phillip’s old, fond refuge so close and yet forever out of reach. His mother is standing in the door, Alexander’s aunt beside her. Both women are pale, Alexander’s aunt clutching her shawl around her shoulders. As though that might protect her. Evelyn Carlyle looks from her husband to her son and back again. Quick, scared little glances, like a rabbit waiting for a fox to pounce.

“Theodore,” she says again, a desperate edge of laughter in her voice, as though hoping this is all some big joke they can laugh off. “What on earth is the matter?”

Phillip’s father ignores her completely. “You,” he spits, looking straight past his wife at the terrified woman cowering behind her. “You, take that disgusting child away from this house. Do not ever come back. If I hear a single word of what happened so much as whispered outside of this house I will destroy your family. Your brother’s career will be over. Your family’s name will be ruined. Now leave.”

He does not wait for the woman to respond. Phillip is hauled up the stairs with his mother still calling after him. Her voice is high with panic and concern but she doesn’t come after them. She doesn’t follow to see what will become of her son in the face of her husband’s anger. Phillip’s feet tangle and trip him on the stairs, grazing his free hand where he tries to brace himself. His father doesn’t even pause. If Phillip doesn’t get his feet under himself quickly, he’ll be dragged along regardless. He scrambles to get his balance again. 

Abruptly, they come to a halt again. Phillip’s father is holding him at arm’s length as though to be in the boy’s very proximity sickens him.

“Father,” Phillip tries, voice breaking but feeling the need to say something, to placate him in some way. “I...”

“Be quiet!” his father roars back at him before Phillip can think of what he needs to say. His father has been opening the door to Phillip’s room – apparently a difficult job when one handed and near shaking with rage. Now he finally has the door open and half throws Phillip inside.

Phillip lands in an uncoordinated heap and instantly raises his hands in anticipation of blows that never fall. There is a loud slam and Phillip dares to peek out. The door is shut once more and Phillip hears the sickening clunk of the lock from the outside. He has apparently passed the point where he is worth beating. He is no longer worth even being looked at.

For a while, Phillip doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. He just lays there on the rug. It’s the same rug that has lain on the floor of his room for as far back as he can remember. The swirls and loops of the pattern are as familiar to him as his own body, more so than his own mind. He traces those patterns with his gaze now, to distract himself. Downstairs he can still hear his father yelling for a while, although at who it is unclear. Maybe at Phillip’s mother or Alexander’s aunt (although Phillip hopes she had the good sense to get well away with Ally while his father was still dealing with him). Maybe it’s one of the servants who got in his way and now Phillip has that to feel guilty about too. It’s he who has messed up, again, and someone else is feeling the weight of his father’s rage.

Phillip’s arm is throbbing from where his father held him. His hand stings from the graze on the stairs. He blows on his palm in an attempt to soothe it. Eventually everything goes quiet downstairs. Phillip still doesn’t get up. He does not know how long he lays there. Around him it feels as though the whole house is holding its breath. Waiting. For what, Phillip isn’t sure.

So lost is he in his own head that he doesn’t hear anyone coming up the stairs, approaching his room. There is just the sudden loud clunk of the door being unlocked and the faint squeak of hinges as it swings open. A tall shadow falls over Phillip’s form but he still does not look up. Perhaps if he lays very still his father won’t trouble himself with him. It is the logic of a preyed upon animal playing dead. There is a cruel huff of laughter above him.

“Well. It seems your unnaturalness knows no limits, Phillip Carlyle.”

Phillip’s insides turn to lead. That is not his father’s voice. Phillip looks up and, sure enough, it is Mr Stevens who stands over him. His back is turned as he shuts the door. Phillip’s hope plummets yet further than he thought possible as he hears the door lock again and watches as Mr Stevens places the key in his pocket. With escape now barred, the man turns back to Phillip. He sneers down at him. There is an amused glint in his eye which Phillip has seen before and hates.

“Get up. You look pathetic down there.”

 Phillip scrambles to obey, his grazed hand and bruised arm forgotten as he clambers to his feet, using the wall to steady himself. Mr Stevens chuckles at his panic.

“Look at me,” he snarls. Phillip had been looking down at the rug again, half hoping it would give-way beneath his feet and plummet him downwards, anywhere away from here. “I said, look at me.”

Phillip only chances the most fleeting of looks at the man’s face. He sees the cruel anticipation there and that is enough for him. Instead he settles for looking at his body and hoping that will be enough. He takes in the set of his broad shoulders, the muscles Phillip knew to be in his arms. As it so often is when he is around this man, Phillip’s gaze flits back to his hands.

A hot wave of dread washes over Phillip.

Mr Steven’s has one hand in his pocket, casual, utterly at ease with this situation. The other hangs by his side. It is not empty. A long leather whip coils around his hand like a snake, the handle held tight in his palm.

Phillip begins to shuffle backwards. He has nowhere to go but he knows he needs to get away from here.

“No,” he half whispers, little more than a mouse’s squeak.

“Be quiet.”

Normally an order from this man and Phillip would be hurrying to obey, but he seems to have lost control of his voice. “Please, no,” he begs. He is sounding pitiful and he knows Mr Stevens will not tolerate this. His voice shakes as badly as his body, little fearful sobs starting already.

“I said, be quiet,” Mr Stevens says again, at a near shout. “Remove your shirt.”

Phillip’s limbs feel weak. He shakes his head, not out of stubbornness or for thinking it will get him out of this. He genuinely does not think he will have the strength in his fingers to do so. Mr Stevens takes a step towards him.

“Remove it, or I will do it for you.”

That spurs Phillip into action. He cringes further away from the man towering over him but he starts to undo the buttons. It takes much longer than it would normally, but Mr Stevens seems content to wait.

“Your father has been telling me precisely what you have been up to,” he informs Phillip, each word dripping with dark amusement. “Cavorting with another _boy_ , of all things. Rolling around in the grass with him like a common whore.”

Phillip wants to protest. He had been doing nothing of the sort. They had been _playing_. But he again cannot think of the words he needs to express this. He can only think of the whip Mr Stevens is slowly, deliberately unwinding. Phillip finally removes his shirt and clings to it. He does not know what to do with it.

“Fold your shirt and place it over there,” Mr Stevens instructs, gesturing towards the chair in the corner. “Show some dignity in this at least.”

Phillip does as he is told. He will do anything to delay what he knows is inevitably coming to him. He remains beside the chair, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself the smallest target possible. The sunshine outside does not reach Phillip. A chill runs through him which sets him shivering. He doubts will ever feel warm again.

“Lay on the bed. Face down.”

Those words are like a death sentence. Phillip does not wish to comply but he has little choice. He stumbles to the edge of the bed, every lesson Mr Stevens has ever told him about the correct way a dominant should walk forgotten. At the foot of the bed, he hesitates again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He tries one last time to protest without any real hope of it working.

“Please don’t do this.” His voice is lost in the still room. Phillip isn’t even sure if he spoke at all. For all the good it does him, he might as well have remained silent.

“On the bed,” Mr Stevens repeats. “Now.”

With a sob, Phillip obeys. He crawls onto the bed, tears already beginning to run down his face. Clearly he is not moving quickly enough. A heavy hand grasps his shoulder and shoves, forcing him down against the mattress. Another soft cry escapes him.

“I would save your tears for later, boy.” The hand is removed from his back to be replaced by the long line of the whip. It just lays there for the moment, the leather heavy against Phillip’s skin. He recoils at the contact.

Seeing his flinch, Mr Stevens hums softly, agreeably, and says matter-of-factly, “If you wish to behave like a sub, Phillip, I will treat you like one. This is what happens to subs.”

The whip leaves Phillip’s back. Its absence is only momentary. There is a sizzling whistle as it cuts through the air before it connects again with a crack. Phillip opens his mouth to scream but for a second the sound is delayed, caught in his chest as the pain builds from a sting to a bruise to a burn in a long line across his left shoulder.

_Swish. Crack._

 The scream finally bursts free from Phillip’s lungs, sharp enough that it claws at his throat on the way out. It’s an inhuman howl of pain. It does not stop the whip from falling.

_Swish. Crack._

There is a pause between hits. Just long enough for the pain to build to a crescendo before another stripe of fire is added, and then another and another.

_Swish. Crack. Swish. Crack. Swish. Crack._

Phillip keeps screaming. He cannot help it. He is scrabbling desperate at the sheets, trying to pull himself away, where he doesn’t know but away, away from this.

“Stay _still_.” Another hit, harder than before which Phillip would not have believed possible. “If you turn, I will not stop. Just think about how this would feel against your stomach, your chest.”

Phillip does not know if this is an empty threat. He has no desire to find out. Has less desire to find out what will happen if he hinders Mr Stevens in any way. He tries to force himself still, to go tense and braced for each hit.

_Swish. Crack._

The burning in Phillip’s shoulder continues, spreads down the left side of his back, covering every inch. This is isn’t the work of anger, of releasing tension. It is precision work. It is punishment with a purpose, designed to let every single hit sink in.

“That’s enough of all this silly noise, Phillip.” _Swish. Crack._ “The least you could do is take your punishment like a man.”

Phillip cannot. Cannot stop, his tears staining the pillow he buries his face into to muffle his screams. When he sucks in frantic breaths of air he is choked by them.

_Swish. Crack._

It is worse than being hit with a hand, with a clenched fist.

Worse than being caned. Cleaving flesh from bone with each hit, surely. He must be bleeding. It _must_ stop if he is bleeding.

When he thinks it can get no worse, the whip comes down again, at an angle, cutting across three or four previous marks.

All attempts at remaining still, at taking this like a man are forgotten. Phillip howls. He rolls away from the blow, curling in on himself.

_Swish. Crack._

The whip curls over Phillip’s side, the sensitive skin over his ribs suddenly alight. Phillip’s scream is so loud he is surprised the walls of the house are not falling.   

“I told you to be still.” Mr Stevens’ voice is calm, refined and dignified as ever. He is unaffected by this. There is a pause, a brief reprise. Phillip can hear the man moving, his slow deliberate footfalls around the bed.

“Now,” says Mr Stevens. Large fingers curl around Phillip’s ankle and pull, forcing him to lay straight. “Let’s try this again.”

The whip comes down on Phillip’s right shoulder and the process starts again. Phillip howls.

* * *

Later – much, much later apparently, because the sun has set outside – Phillip wakes up to someone touching his back. He cries out at the contact and tries to pull away. Cold, damp fingers touch his shoulder very lightly to still him.

“Shh, Phillip,” says a voice as soft and hesitant at those fingers. “It’s just me. Try to lie still.”

Phillip turns his head to the side to see his mother. She’s perched on the edge of the bed, a jar of ointment resting in her lap. As Phillip continues to lay still, she resumes what she had been doing previously, spreading the ointment steadily over his back.

It is wonderfully cool against skin which feels raw but each touch makes him tense up. He’s biting his lip to keep his whimpering inside but she hears it anyway.

“I know, my darling,” she whispers. Phillip hasn’t been called ‘my darling’ in years. “I know it hurts. But this will make it better.”

Phillip highly doubts that. For a while neither of them talks, just Phillips bitten off cries and his mother’s occasional ‘shh’ to soothe him. This is the most physical contact she has had with him in years. The most positive contact Phillip has had in years. When she reaches his side, and the long, deep mark no doubt curling around it, Phillip recoils again. His mother puts down the jar and looks at him. There is a sad, distant grief in her eyes, wet with tears she does not let fall. It is perhaps the saddest Phillip has ever seen her. Phillip’s hand twitches, longing to reach out and touch his fingers against hers.

“I know this was awful for you,” she says quietly, breaking the silence. “My little boy, I do understand that.” Phillip senses the ‘but’ before she says it and retreats his hand from where it had been inching across the sheets towards her. “But this is what happens to subs. You don’t want to be a sub.”

“Mother,” Phillip whispers. His voice comes out strange and croaky. Almost at once, a cold glass is pressed against his lips and his mother helps him to drink a few sips in his prone position. “Mother,” he tries again. “I can’t... can’t change who I am.”

“Yes you can,” she insists, setting the glass of water down on the bedside table with a click. “It is just about behaviour Phillip. You’re still young; act as a dominant and the rest will follow later.”

Phillip hiccups. His mother makes a soft tutting sound of sympathy and moves from the bed to kneel, face down at his eye level.

“This isn’t what you want. Being a submissive... This is what it would feel like, and you don’t want that.” She moves a hand up to touch his hair, to smooth it flat as she used to when he was a child small enough to cuddle up with her and be eased by the sound of her voice alone.

Phillip moves sharply away from her, ignoring the burning in his back. “I think you should leave,” he says, as sharply as he can manage.

His mother’s forehead creases in a frown. “Do not speak to me like that, Phillip.” Her voice is still gentle, but the reprimand is clear. “I am trying to help you. That is all anyone is trying to do.”

Something shuts off inside of Phillip. Even at his age, he knows a blatant lie when he hears one and he is certain that of all the little falsities and pretences Mrs Carlyle has ever partaken, that is the largest.

“Please,” Phillip forces himself to say. “Please. Just leave. I want to be alone.”

For a few seconds, Mrs Carlyle lingers. She licks at her bottom lip – a nervous twitch Phillip has never seen her indulge before. “Very well,” she says after a moment. She rises to her feet stiffly, formally, as though departing from a dinner party. “I will come back later to reapply the cream. Maybe you will have calmed down by then.”

On her way out, she pauses at the door. She turns to look at her son once more, meets his graze and looks so broken in that moment that Phillip almost wants to call her back to him.

“You just need to learn where your place is, Phillip.” She half whispers the words into the darkened room. “You don’t want to be a submissive,” she repeats once more. Then she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Phillip lies still for a long time after his mother leaves. He is scared his back will rip open if he moves more than an inch. The glass of water is tempting for his parched lips, his sore throat. But it is out of reach. Something wet trickles down his throbbing back and Phillip knows he is bleeding.  

As he lies there, Phillip has time to think. He tries very hard not to think about Mr Stevens, or the whip, or how it had felt as it cut into his skin. He thinks about Ally, instead, which is nearly as bad. He wonders if Ally has been punished too (although god he hopes not). It’s unlikely though. Ally is not a submissive. And this is what happens to subs.

Mostly, Phillip thinks about his mother’s last words to him.

She’s right. Phillip does not want to be a sub. He’s never wanted to be anything less in his entire life. It is a feeling which will stay with him for decades.


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just gets darker, I am afraid to say, so please go easy. The Non-consensual touching occurs in this chapter so that is something to be especially aware of. Take care, see you on the other side.

Phillip is allowed a week for his back to heal. He spends most of it laying face down on his bed and trying to lose himself in his own head. After that first night, his mother does not visit him. He doesn’t know if that is part of his punishment too. A maid comes in to bring him food and to reapply cream to his back twice a day, to clean and dress the wounds. She is an older lady with dark skin and Phillip realises he has never learnt her name. He tries to ask her but she either doesn’t hear or chooses not to answer. She does smile at him though, weakly, and it is a kindness that feels like a drop of water on sun parched skin. She tends to his back in silence, but with great care. She seems to know what she is doing and Phillip wonders how many people she has treated in this way. Maybe having your back whipped open isn’t an uncommon thing.

After a week, she arrives in the morning but instead of tending to his wounds, she silently helps him to get dressed and Phillip knows he will not be allowed to wallow any longer. He walks, stiffly, downstairs and sits at the table for breakfast. The back of the chair is hard and unyielding against his still tender skin. He squirms, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Phillip.” His father does not sound angry. His voice is not raised; it is a calm, level warning which Phillip recognizes at once. “Do not fidget. You are not a toddler and you will remember your manners.”

Phillip nods and swallows around the sudden blockage in his throat. “Yes, sir,” he says in quiet reply. He sits rigid on the edge of his chair for the rest of the meal until he can be excused.

His lessons with Mr Stevens resume the next day. The whipping, and the events that led up to it, are never directly mentioned. The threat is dangled over Phillip regularly, like a guillotine blade waiting to fall. _(“What’s the matter, boy? Did the whipping last time not hurt enough?”) (“You’ve already forgotten our last session. Perhaps the whip would help it sink in faster.”_ )

Phillip’s back continues to heal slowly. He is left with just a few, faint marks and one long, raised scar, curling over his ribs. He does not wish to touch it, to ever think about that day again. Invariably though, when he is stressed or anxious, he will cross his arms over himself and his hand will find that scar beneath his shirt. He traces it with his fingertips. The repetitive action helps to ground him. The reminder of what could happen if he messes up again keeps him focussed.

Sometimes Phillip messes up without even knowing he is doing it. Once, all he is doing is reading. But it is the way he is reading – curled up in a chair and half hugging himself, bent low and small over the book. It is also what he is reading. It is a novel about a sub who refuses the various Doms her family attempt to match her with and marries for love instead. Phillip is lost within the words. He doesn’t even hear anyone enter the room. He is unaware of his father’s presence until the book is yanked abruptly out of his hands. His father glances at the cover and sneers nastily at what his son is reading. He raises the book above his head then brings it down in one long arc, smacking it against the side of Phillip’s face.

The blow is hard. Phillip sprawls out of the chair and onto the floor with the force of it. When he raises a tentative hand to his forehead, he can feel blood where the corner caught his temple.

After that, everything Phillip reads is carefully monitored. He’s barred access from his father’s library and any book he does read has to be approved first. Phillip resorts to making up his own stories more and more. Most of them he burns after writing, too scared of what will happen if he gets caught to keep them. Those that remain he stuffs into a carefully cut hole in the underside of his mattress.

* * *

Phillip starts to lose interest in food. He picks at his meals, cuts the food into smaller and smaller portions while eating as little as he is allowed without being accused of being difficult. He has learnt by now that no amount of food will fill the empty ache inside of him.  

He develops a series of other odd little habits. The self soothing stroking of his scar is one thing, and it goes barely noticed. But the other nervous ticks he picks up are less well received. He finds he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and bites his nails reflexively, sometimes moving on to the skin around them. For a while he wrings his hands together, nervously lacing and unlacing his fingers, whenever he is talking to someone. He is told to stop that silly nonsense on several occasions before his father canes his hands.

“To remind you to keep them still,” he says. “You look as though something is wrong with you.”

There _is_ something wrong with Phillip. His father has done nothing but tell him so for years. Even so, the marks on his hands do serve as a deterrent.

They can never stop Phillip from biting his nails though. Mostly because he does it when he is alone. He does it at night time when he can’t sleep. Sometimes he falls asleep with his fingers in his mouth like an infant.

Some nights he bites his nails until they bleed.  

* * *

 

When Phillip’s teenage years hit, his lessons with Mr Stevens take on a new and sickening intensity.

Alongside his lessons, Phillip is given texts to read and memorise. Instructions on how he should be thinking and feeling. He should see girls and be filled with confidence. He should be a master at control, should yearn to give those around him direction. He should, increasingly find the urge to dominate. That desire does not come.

At fourteen, Phillip’s parents start to introduce him to a succession of pretty girls, still more companions than serious sweethearts, but Phillip knows what will be discussed between his parents and theirs. When he introduces himself to any of these girls, they look away, lower their delicate eyelids. Phillip finds himself mirroring them and the girls look at him a little strangely then, not understanding. When he bows to kiss a girl’s hand, the bow is always just a little too low and, with the girls he really likes, he has the urge to go lower still, to sink to his knees.

Phillip is expected to keep up his studies, alongside his ‘additional lessons’ as his father refers to the sessions with Mr Stevens.  For a while, Phillip has a kind, understanding tutor who doesn’t seem to mind the amount of times he has to go over basic calculations which his previous tutor ensured him an imbecile could master in an afternoon. This man spends a whole week going through the subject again and again. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t threaten Phillip with the cane, or with reporting back to his father. When Phillip finally understands, can complete the calculations by himself, the man positively beams at him. He places a hand on Phillip’s shoulder and squeezes, calls him fantastic and brilliant. Phillip doesn’t know if it is his patience, or his kind words, the first positive contact Phillip has received in perhaps years. But he probably has his first real crush on that teacher after that. He goes pink and flustered whenever he talks to him for weeks.

When he is allowed out of the house, closely supervised, his eye is drawn to the wrong people. The older brother of one of his potential female partners. He’s older than Phillip by years, in his twenties. Normally Phillip would cringe away from his confidence, his manic energy, but he does it all with a kindness and humour that makes Phillip, with a distant ache, think of Ally. The brother takes the time to shake Phillip’s hand and when he does Phillip doesn’t want to let go. He wants this man to lead him and he’ll follow.

Phillip dreams about him that night. He dreams of the feel of their hands together. He dreams about lying on the grass with the young man above him just how Ally did all those years ago. Only no one stops them this time. It is the first time Phillip has ever dreamt about anyone sexually or romantically. He wakes shaking and scared because shouldn’t it be the pretty girl he spent the afternoon in stilted conversation with whom he dreams about? Shouldn’t he be dreaming of taking control of her mouth, rather than someone taking control of his?

Everything is messed up inside of Phillip’s brain. Hormones mixed with instinct mixed with years and years of training him to fight against every natural urge he has. Phillip should be a dominant, has been told that he damn well will be a dominant for so long but he has none of impulse or urges that go along with it. Even in his dreams he is a sub.

Another time, a woman catches his eye in the street. She’s tall for a woman, and that draws Phillip’s attention to start with. Then it’s the sway of her step, the movement of her hands as she twirls her parasol, almost like a little girl. He doesn’t step demurely. She strides out, powerful and sure of herself. No respectable woman Phillip had ever met walks like that. She sees Phillip looking and she grins, showing her teeth. Phillip’s mother yanks his wrist, pulling him on and blushing furiously. She mutters under her breath that Phillip ought to know better than to be associating with ‘that class of person’. A few seconds of eye contact is hardly associating, but Phillip doesn’t say this.

He doesn’t dream about the woman. But he does think about her. He wonders what it would be like to kiss a woman like that. He wonders what it would feel like to lay still and silent while she runs the sharp metal tip of her parasol along his skin.

It’s not long after that, after the moment with the woman in the street, that Mr Stevens starts a new type of lesson with him. Maybe it’s just the age Phillip is, old enough now to start to think and act like a man. Maybe Mr Stevens can see right into his head, and pull out all the private, secret thoughts he has in there. Phillip has no doubt that he would hold them up for the world to see just to humiliate Phillip if he could.

 Mr Stevens shows up just after lunch one day. Phillip had been hoping that he would avoid lessons that day – it was rare for Mr Stevens to arrive later than mid morning. He passes Phillip in the hallway and looks at him. Phillip’s insides twist at that look. He recoils harshly when Mr Stevens raises his hand but he just uses it to ruffle Phillip’s hair, albeit roughly, in passing. It is an unexpectedly affectionate act from the man and it does nothing to settle the churning of Phillip’s insides. Mr Stevens laughs as he carries on down the corridor and into one of the rooms off of it without caring to look back at Phillip.

It’s about half an hour before a maid is sent to fetch Phillip. He’d been holed up in his bedroom, hoping that ‘out of sight out of mind’ might stretch to work on him. She instructs him, hurriedly and with downcast eyes, that he is to attend his additional lessons now.

If the staff of his parents’ household know what goes on in those lessons – and it would be hard for them not to – they do not let it show. Phillip doesn’t know what has been said to them to ensure they do not gossip to anyone else. He does not want to know. He can imagine all too well the threats his father could hold over them. 

Phillip hurries to find Mr Stevens. He has absolutely no wish to do so but if he dawdles, is late past whatever time Mr Stevens expects him to be there, then he will be in trouble before they even begin.

Mr Stevens is waiting for him in the same room Phillip saw him entering before. It is a sitting room. Not his mother’s private sanctuary but a rarely used formal space usually reserved for people to congregate in during parties. Without the throng of people, the small space seems cavernous. Most of the furniture has been pushed back, leaving just a table and a single chair pulled up to it in the centre of the room. Mr Stevens is resting casually in an armchair in a corner when Phillip enters but upon seeing the boy he rises to his feet. He is unhurried, because he would never be hurried by Phillip or by anyone, but still with a sense of purpose.

“There he is,” he announces to no one, to the empty room and the furniture which he has as much regard for as he does Phillip. “Where did you hurry off to? Not hiding from me, I hope?”

Phillip shakes his head, reflexively answers, “No, sir,” and avoids looking directly at the man’s face.

“Glad to hear it.” Mr Stevens moves behind him and the hairs on the back of Phillip’s neck stand on end.  The sound of the door being shut firmly is never a good one. Not when Phillip and this man remain shut on this side of it. 

“Sit,” Mr Stevens instructs. Phillip doesn’t need to look at him for confirmation. He knows he means that chair at the table. As Phillip sits down he notices that an old, rough rug has been laid out on the floor beneath his chair. It is starkly out of place with the rest of the plush room, which is immaculate and highly elaborate just like the rest of his parents’ house.

There are papers laid out of the table. They’re face down but Phillip can just see the dark ink showing through from the other side. His fingers twitch towards them, touching the corner of one sheet with his small, bitten nails.

“Not yet,” says Mr Stevens. Phillip snatches his hand back and Mr Stevens laughs at him. Phillip does not know a time when he has heard this man laugh when it has not been cruel and aimed at him. “You’ll get plenty of time to look.” Phillip does not know what he will be looking at and he knows from experience he will not want to find out.

“First of all,” Mr Stevens continues, “here.” He places a glass down on the table, directly in front of Phillip. It is full nearly to the brim with...not quite liquid but something thick and dark, burnt orange in colour. Phillip picks at the skin around his nails, out of sight beneath the table. Mr Stevens bends low, stooping to Phillip’s height so that he can speak directly into his ear.

“Drink.”

It is the one word command Phillip had been expecting. It sounds so simple, the polite offer of a drink on a warm day, but Phillip knows better. “I’m...not very thirsty,” he says, quietly. “Thank you,” he adds hurriedly. Impoliteness will not be tolerated and he is already pushing his limits by refusing.

“I wasn’t asking.” Mr Stevens is still very, very close to Phillip’s ear. His breath is warm against Phillip’s skin as he repeats, “Drink.”

Phillip takes the glass in his hands. He realises he is shaking, the viscous liquid sloshing in the glass. Spilling it would not be wise, Phillip does not need to be told that. He raises the glass to his lips and drinks from it before he can lose his nerve. The first sip does not instantly poison him so he drinks deeper, keen to get whatever game this is over with as quickly as possible. Anything if it means Mr Stevens will move away from him sooner.

It is surprisingly not replant. It is the consistency of thick, only slightly lumpy cream and tastes more like oranges than anything truly nasty. There is just the faintest bitter after taste in the back of Phillip’s mouth as he sets the glass back down and he is quick to hide his shudder. He carefully dabs at his top lip with his fingers, wiping away the residue there.

“Thank you,” he says, as the glass is taken away. There is no response. Phillip continues to stare at the faint dark circle left behind on the wood. His mother would have a fit if he had left a drink to mark like that.

Seconds tick by as Phillip sits there, stretching into minutes. The taste in his mouth is less pleasant now, more like a distant burn. He shifts in his seat, rubbing at his throat as he swallows. The burn is carrying on down his throat. It’s still nothing more than mild acid reflux for now. Phillip just hopes it stays that way.

“Very good,” Mr Stevens says from behind Phillip. He is not bent over Phillip anymore, but that makes the situation only marginally more bearable. Phillip doesn’t know what is supposed to be ‘very good’ about this. He has done nothing, good or bad. An arm reaches over Phillip’s shoulder, making him flinch, but Mr Stevens just reaches past him to the desk and takes one piece of paper between his fingers. He turns it over and sets it back on the desk with a flourish.

It takes Phillip a few seconds to realise what he is staring at. When it does sink in, when the shapes move together to form an image he gasps, colour flooding his face. He looks hastily back at Mr Stevens, sure there has been some kind of mistake.

Mr Stevens is smiling at him, head on one side, watching Phillip mildly. “Look at it, Phillip.”

Phillip looks back at the paper. What he is looking at is...indecent. It is an image of a young man on his knees, arms tied behind his back. He is naked, save for the blindfold and the gag that he wears. Even without being able to see, his head is tilted up towards another man towering over him. Phillip does not understand why he is being made to look at this, of all things. Surely all these years of... of training have been to steer him away from this. He tries to look away, to look down at his lap, at empty air in front of him, anywhere but at this image.

A large, horribly familiar pair of hands grips his head and forces him to look back at the desk, at the man kneeling in submission. “Keep looking,” Mr Stevens growls. He is bending close to Phillip again. “If you close your eyes you’ll regret it.”

Phillip squirms, can feel humiliated tears building in his eyes. Mr Stevens keeps on hand on his face while he reaches past Phillip to turn over another sheet of paper, and then another. More images, all of men in submission to other men, or to women. Men being kissed with their head pulled back by their hair. There is writing too. Pages and pages of writing from a submissive’s perspective, detailing how he feels when he’s submitting, handing control over to another person. It is the most appealing thing Phillip has ever read but in that moment he is horrified by this. By being made to read, to look at, all of his fantasies laid bare in front of him, with Mr Stevens standing over him and forcing him to watch. All the while the content of his stomach roils.

“I feel sick,” Phillip mumbles. He tries to stand up, but the hands on his head force to do little more than writhe and flail ineffectually. The hands slip to his shoulders and then Mr Stevens leans forwards once more to select one of the pieces of writing. He pulls it towards Phillip’s own trembling hands.

“Read it,” he says, paying no mind at all to Phillip’s own words, even as he repeats them. Mr Stevens talks over him. “Read it, Phillip. Out loud, so I can hear you.”

Phillip whimpers like a child and normally that would earn him a harsh slap in reprimand but Mr Stevens just tightens his grip on Phillip’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He gives Phillip a little shake, spurring him into speech.

Phillip recites from the paper. He stumbles over the simplest of words, can feel his face flushing violent read the further down the page he gets. He has never said things like this before, has never even thought the. He has never felt so embarrassed in his life. Maybe that is why he is feeling so sick. That, and the slow creep of the fingers on his shoulders. Mr Stevens starts to stroke the sides of Phillip’s neck as he talks and Phillip is near sobbing by now.

“I-I... I’m going to...” he stutters, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence. He is sick before he can. He just has the sense to turn his head to the side before he vomits most of his lunch onto the harsh rug laid out beneath him.

This is planned, Phillip realises as he still shakes with the aftermath of being so sick. This was all planned. The rug was laid out because Mr Stevens knew Phillip would be sick. The drink he was given. It must have contained something to turn his stomach like this. Phillip is crying properly now, but he is scarcely given the chance to take a breath before he is hauled back into a sitting position.

“No...” he whimpers, trying to push the papers away, to push himself away from the desk. “No, please.” He hiccups, unsure if he is about to be sick again and knowing it is only a matter of time before he is.

Mr Stevens grabs his arms and holds them behind the back of the chair, contorted at a torturous angle. “We’re not done yet,” he says, cruelly amused. “We’ve only just gotten started. Keep reading.”

They’re not done when Phillip is sick for a second time, or a third. They continue until Phillip has nothing left inside of him to expel. Afterwards, he retreats to his room once more. He lays on his bed, body wracked with the aftershocks of being so horrendously ill. He skips dinner. Would skip all future meals for the rest of his life if he thought that were a possibility.

He knows what this is about. This is designed to forever link together the idea of submitting with agonizing, awful sickness for Phillip.

That is just the first of many sessions like that. They do not happen with any regularity which Phillip can use to predict or pre-warn himself. They do not even happen very frequently. But they happen often enough that soon Phillip is sickened just with the thought of the taste of oranges, or the consistency of cream. Frequently enough that, on the third or fourth time, Phillip has to be dragged into the room by his hair, sobbing and protesting every step of the way. He is tied to the chair during that session, cannot even turn to the side, and so he is sick all down himself.  He learns, yet again, that resisting will get you nothing but more pain.

* * *

The year Phillip turns fifteen is one of the worst of his life. His childhood is now deemed to be thoroughly at an end. He is now expected to attend social engagements, parties, those awful meetings between his father and his father’s friends which had repulsed him so as a child. They repulse him even more now, when he can see them from the inside out. Those men consider themselves the betters of nearly everyone else – women, the lower classes, submissives. His father’s eyes always flicker towards Phillip with a sneer when the later is mentioned. Anyone who is not white, male, Dominant, privileged is a figure to be ridiculed.

Phillip tries alcohol for the first time at one of those parties. He sips whiskey and at first he shudders at the taste, but he soon learns that taste has nothing to do with it. It is all about how the alcohol makes him _feel_. It warms him from inside. It blurs the edges of everything around him, dulls the conversations he is forced to endure or at least numbs how he feels about it. It numbs how he feels about a great many things.  A few glasses in and Phillip starts to forget about the constant empty pit inside of him.

He learns quickly where the line lies between the content alcohol induced fug which dimmed reality, and the edge of complete mindless oblivion which could easily follow if he drank too much. If he makes a fool of himself, the fact that he is drunk will have no bearing on his father’s judgment.

At fifteen, Phillip is also now expected to follow his father when he goes into the city to conduct business. He is supposed to be observing his father’s work, watching how he interacts with other people and to be learning from his example. On one occasion, he watches his father scream into the face of a young female submissive for no other reason than the fact his father’s business has lost out on a trade deal. It is not, as far as Phillip can tell, the woman’s fault in any way. He watches her leave the office, face tearstained and blotchy red, and he longs to have some word of comfort for her. But he would need to comfort himself first and he is still trembling just by being in proximity to his father’s wrath.

Phillip comes away from those meetings sure of just two things. His father is among the two people he hates more than anything else in the world. He will never be brave enough to tell him so.

Year fifteen is the year Phillip runs away from home. It is a stupid decision of impulse rather than one of great thought and care. Consequently, Phillip finds himself on the streets with little more than the clothes he stands up in. He hadn’t even thought to grab any food. He has no plan of where he will go, or what he will do. He just knows he cannot stand to endure another session with Mr Stevens, or another day in the presence of his father. He hardly sees his mother apart from at meal times and even then her presence is infrequent; she is no reason to stay.

He makes it only as far as the slums of the city and spends the night cowering in an alleyway where the buildings lean closely enough to block out at least some of the wind. He is too scared to sleep. Twice in the night someone stumbles past him. Phillip draws himself into the darkest shadows and hopes he will remain invisible to whoever passes by.

Phillip can endure time without food, has been deprived of it frequently enough as punishment or by his own volition. By the following evening, however he is hungry enough to attempt to steal some food from a market stall. He is not quick enough, not subtle enough and the stallholder catches him easily. He comes away with nothing more than bruises and a bloody nose.

He tries again to find a safe place to sleep. He does not pick a spot so secluded as last night. People walk the streets around him. Women, and some men, dressed in as few clothes as he has ever seen a person wear. He listens to the sultry tone of their voices, their submissive words. A small, awful part of Phillip is soothed by this. He has never before been around people so openly accepting of their own submission. An even worse part of Phillip yearns for what they have.

It is nearly morning when someone finds Phillip. Well, they trip right over him and at first Phillip tenses, readies himself for a tirade of abuse, be it verbal or physical. But the man stops, stumbling and laughing. Drunk, Phillip realises, but only mildly and happy with it.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man apologies with a laugh. “Didn’t hurt you did I? Are you alright down there?” Then he gets a proper look at Phillip. Maybe it’s the blood still coating Phillip’s face, or his thin, pale arms, half raised to defend himself, or the way Phillip is shaking in the cold. The man’s face loses its amusement and falls into concern as he kneels on the grimy pavement beside Phillip. “Hello,” he half whispers. Phillip does not greet him in return but the man continues his concern. “What happened?”  

So much has happened which has led Phillip to this place. He does not know how to find enough words to explain.

The man is not to be deterred by silence. He looks Phillip up and down and takes in his fancy clothes, dirty and crumpled though they may be from two nights on the streets. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks, gently.  He reaches for Phillip’s face slowly, gently, but still sure and confident of his own movements, sure that this will soothe Phillip. “Why don’t you come with me? I can help you. Get you cleaned up. Get you something to eat. You shouldn’t be out here, kid.”

His fingertips make contact with Phillip’s chin, dabbing at the dried blood, and Phillip is up and running. He hears the man call after him but he doesn’t look back. He knocks into two women and they shriek in alarm and then squeal with laughter when they see him. Phillip does not stop. He cannot hear the man following him but he doesn’t dare stop to check.

Phillip does not even know why he is running. The man’s words had been kind. His voice was not one of the lecherous shouts he has heard calling out during the long night. The man’s touch had been kinder still, no intention of hurting Phillip. He’d only wanted to help, to care, to protect.

That is why Phillip is running. His brain cannot fathom this. A Dominant wanting to hurt him, that is something Phillip can understand. That is normal, expected. A Dominant wishing to show him kindness... That is something Phillip cannot comprehend.

He goes home because he has nowhere else to go. His mother answers the door which he finds peculiar; usually she wouldn’t demean herself with the possibility of having to interact with whoever might be calling. But as soon as the door is open wide enough she pulls Phillip inside and hugs him close, tight. Phillip’s arms twitch at his sides. He does not know what to do with them. Should he hug back? He remains rigid in her embrace and it does not last long enough for Phillip to grow accustomed to the unfamiliar feeling. She pulls back after only a few seconds, straightens her clothes and looks Phillip up and down.

“I was worried,” she says, across the distance that separates them now. “So worried.”

She sounds it, too. It is curious to Phillip that she worried for him after a few days on the streets, when she doesn’t know what has happened to him, but has not shown any trace of worry for the things that she knows to have happened to Phillip within her home.

“I am fine, Mother,” Phillip says. He does not know how to ease her concern, or even if he should.

“Your face...”

Phillip touches his nose, still sore from where he was punched but a long way from the worse pain he has ever received. “It probably looks worse than it is.”

His mother looks at him a while longer, then glances to her own shoulder, checking to see if Phillip left any trace of blood behind during their brief embrace.

“Your father is furious.” She says it as a statement but Phillip knows it to be a warning. “He will... want to speak with you. You should go and get cleaned up.”

Phillip does not respond verbally. He just nods to show he has understood and drags himself up the stairs. He is in no hurry to speak with his father. And he is sure his father has very little speaking in mind.

He could delay it, but he knows that will just be making things worse. He would love to sleep, and eat, and to hide, but he knows every second he waits his father will just be getting madder. As soon as he is washed and dressed in clean clothes which do not smell like a trash heap, he goes to his father’s office.

It is to Phillip’s horror to discover that Mr Stevens is there too, has clearly been summoned to be a part of Phillip’s punishment. Of course he is; Phillip’s father would not wish to dirty his hands more than necessary. Phillip was correct about his father not wishing to speak. He does not even shout at Phillip or strike him outright, which is what he had been expecting.

“It is time for you to stop acting like a child, Phillip,” he states, calmly. “You need to learn to face the consequences of your actions.”

Phillip is ordered to remove his shoes and socks and then kneel in a chair. He does so, mutely, while screaming internally. As Mr Stevens approaches him, runs one hand through his hair and then grabbing a handful to keep him in place, Phillip expects the cane. He does not anticipate it being used on the soles of his bare feet.

It is, Phillip supposes, an attempt to make the punishment fit the crime. He ran away. Now they are making sure he will not be running anywhere for a while. It continues until Phillip’s feet are bleeding.

When it is over, Phillip’s father leaves him alone with Mr Stevens. Phillip is resting his face against the back of the chair to hide his tears. He listens to the sounds of Mr Stevens wiping the cane clean and putting it away. Phillip doesn’t move because he hasn’t been told to yet. He also has no idea how he is going to get back to his room and he would rather remain in this chair for the rest of his life than give Mr Stevens the pleasure of watching him limp – or even crawl – away.

Mr Stevens is suddenly right next to Phillip in that eerie way he has of moving without making sound. A man as tall and muscled as him should not be able to move so silently. His hand goes to Phillip’s hair once more, but instead of pulling, this time he is stroking. It’s worse by far.

“Silly little boy,” he croons softly, the gentlest he has ever spoken to Phillip. “Where did you even think you were going, hm?”

Phillip doesn’t answer, is frozen to the spot. Maybe if he remains very, very still then this will end. The hand not in Phillip’s hair touches his left ankle. Phillip can’t help but wince; the prospect of any sort of touch so close to his injured feet is enough to do that.

“What would a pretty little boy like you do on the streets?”

Phillip bites his lip, swallows bile. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know if one is expected.

Clearly his lack of response is boring. Mr Stevens shifts the hand on his ankle to drag his fingers roughly over the broken skin of Phillip’s feet until he screams.

* * *

After that day, Phillip has thin, pale lines on the soles of his feet to go along with the ones on his back. If he over exerts himself, dances too long at a party or spends too long walking, his feet throb.

But that is not the worst thing to happen to Phillip the year he turns fifteen. That happens the day they bring the girl to him.

* * *

 

Phillip is studying in his room. He doesn’t really have a tutor anymore. His parents no longer see the point; he excels at anything that involves the written word and he knows enough about everything else to give off the appearance of someone highly educated. And, of course, appearances are everything. Still Phillip continues to study on his own. He needs to get out of his parents’ house. He doesn’t know how yet. He just knows he cannot stay here. Anything that will aid him in getting by on his own one day is worth knowing.

He is trying to expand his vocabulary in French, reading through one of the few books he is permitted to read in a language his father is not fluent in. When there is a knock at the door he is quick to answer it. If it were his father at the door, he wouldn’t bother with knocking. Nor would Mr Stevens. Still, Phillip doesn’t want to risk keeping anyone waiting. When he opens the door it is to a maid. It’s the same woman who had helped tend to his back all those years ago. She was still working with the family even though many others had left, or been made to leave.

Phillip smiles at her, trying to put her at ease. She should know that she has nothing to fear from him. (Phillip is not fool enough to mistake any understanding he may have with this woman for friendship. She only told him her name was Meg after Phillip asked for the hundredth time, just to shut him up. She never calls him by his name. Still, he cannot help but like her and he hopes that the feeling is at least somewhat reciprocated. He would hate for her to think of him as she must his father). But at that moment, Phillip knows there is something wrong. Meg is looking back down the corridor towards the stairs and when Phillip swings the door open she jumps and steps back. Her eyes flicker quickly back to the ground even as Phillip tries to gently make eye contact with her.

“Sir,” she says, softly. “He wants to see you downstairs. In the dining room.” She casts another scared little glance back at the stairs. Phillip reflexively runs his fingers together before stopping himself.

“He?” he asks. “My father?”

Meg shakes her head. Phillip’s hands knit together once more, clenching hard enough for him to feel the ragged edges of bitten nails digging into his palms. “Oh,” he mumbles. “Other ‘he’.”

Meg nods mutely.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Another shake of the head. “Sir. I really think you should go. It... would not do to keep him waiting.”

“I expect you’re right.” Phillip forces his hands to unfurl and steps out of his room on legs gone suddenly weak. Meg steps back further, head lowered. She’s near shaking. “Meg?” Phillip asks, gently. “What’s wrong? Did he... do something to you?”

Phillip doesn’t know what he will do if the answer is yes. He can’t protect himself, much less anyone else. Meg shakes her head once more and steps out of the way when he tries to place a comforting hand on her arm.

“No. But I really think you should go now. Sir.”

Phillip goes.

When he enters the dining room, he starts to understand why Meg had been acting so strangely. Mr Stevens is not the only one waiting for him. There is a girl standing beside the table. She looks to be about Phillip’s age, but it’s hard to tell. Her small frame and ill fitting, patched clothes make her look younger. Her matted hair hangs loose around her face. Just like Meg, her eyes are darting around the room. She doesn’t seem very scared though. Just accessing. Accepting even, although of what Phillip does not yet know.

“What is she doing here?” Phillip tries to make his voice sound enquiring, rather than demanding.

Mr Stevens still tuts at his words. “Now that’s not very polite is it, Phillip?”

Phillip says nothing. Mr Stevens has never been bothered about teaching Phillip politeness towards anyone other than him. This is just to antagonise him, get a response which Phillip could be punished for. Phillip will not give it to him.

“She,” says Mr Stevens, when he realises he’s not going to goad Phillip into answering back, “is here to help us with a particular lesson today.”

“W-what... What lesson?” Phillip’s mouth has gone dry. Whatever lesson this girl could be there to help with, he doesn’t want to be a part of it.

“Stuttering, Phillip,” Mr Stevens snaps. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Sorry,” Phillip responds hastily, shrinking back.

“And do not show weakness in front of subs.”

This is not a new rule. Phillip is not expected to show weakness in front of anyone, but subs especially. He has to show them that he is their better in every way. He looks back at the girl. She is now looking down at the table and acting as though she cannot hear the exchange which has been going on.

“Come here,” Mr Stevens orders. Phillip obeys, too conscious of the situation to risk so much as shuffling his feet on the way. When he is stood beside Mr Stevens, the man bends down and whispers something into the girl’s ear. She nods meekly, without saying anything, and removes her shawl. Phillip can see the tremor in her fingers now. She is scared, just hiding it well. She folds the shawl neatly and places it over the back of a chair. Then her hands reach to the back of her neck and begin unfastening her dress.

“What are you doing?” Phillip asks, alarmed. The girl pays him no mind. As she undoes the back of her dress, one button at a time, Mr Stevens speaks to him.

“Consider this a test, Phillip. You need to start to truly act as a Dominant.”

The girl’s dress is undone almost down to her waist now. Phillip is relieved when she does not continue to undress but it is only a temporary feeling. She steps forwards and leans the top half of her body onto the table. She folds her arms and rests her head against them. Mr Stevens picks up something from one of the chairs and holds it out to Phillip.

Phillip reaches for the object without thinking, still so thrown by whatever it is that the girl is doing to pay much attention. It is only when the solid handle of the whip makes contact with Phillip’s hand that he startles, reeling back.

“Take it, Phillip,” Mr Stevens warns. Phillip shakes his head. He looks from the whip to the girls back. Oh now he knows where this is going and he does not want any part in it. “Take it,” says Mr Stevens, with a tone that is rapidly losing its patience, “or feel it used on you. Would that be preferable?”

Phillip shakes his head jerkily. He cannot do this. Yet he can already feel the phantom pain of the whip cutting into his back and when Mr Stevens sighs noisily and says, “Maybe a few hits will change your mind,” Phillip near snatches the whip out of his hand.

Phillip would dearly love to be able to throw the whip aside. He wants to break the handle in half. He wants to take the girl’s hand and run from the room with her. But no good ever came from running.

“Stand behind her.”

Feet like lead, Phillip staggers the few steps to stand behind the girl. Her bare back is in front of him. Her skin is not the milky pale flesh that the girls Phillip knows, who spend all day hiding from the sun to achieve it. It is lightly tanned and up close Phillip can see that she already has scars that match his own. They crisscross her back in patterns so neat and even that they almost look fake. Almost. She reaches back and sweeps her hair over one shoulder, clearing more of her skin for Phillip to view. 

“I think you know what you need to do,” Mr Stevens says. He sits down, rests his head in one hand, clearly content to watch what is about to unfold. “You are a Dominant,” he reminds Phillip. “She is a sub. She needs to be punished.”

“What has she done?” Phillip asks softly, his voice nearly giving out on him. He despises the question. As if that matters.

“That is of no interest to you. All you need to know, is that she needs to be punished. You are going to be the one to do it.” 

“Can’t,” Phillip croaks. “I can’t do that.”

“If you don’t, then I’ll put you down beside her and use the whip on you, too. That will be worse for both of you I assure you.”

Phillip has never felt more trapped in his life. Mr Stevens’ glare roots him to the spot. The girl lies immobile and impassive in front of him. The whip sits heavy and sickening in his hand. He would rather be presented with that awful orange drink again, would rather be sick a hundred times than made to go through with this. But he knows that Mr Stevens will carry through on his promise given half the chance. So, Phillip raises the whip, and hates himself forever more.

Every time he tries to relent, Mr Stevens is there growling ‘Harder, Phillip’. If he pauses, he is told ‘Continue’ in the same passive, calm tone. He is not allowed to stop until the girl’s back is split open and she’s screaming. Phillip thought she would cry out long before she does. But then, this is not her first time.

Phillip sits weakly in a chair as she redresses herself. She’s still sniffing back tears and when Phillip dares to look up, he can see the blood starting to paint the back of her dress darkly. She ties her shawl around her shoulders with a gasp. Mr Stevens ushers her to the door while Phillip still sits. He watches, is dully satisfied in some hollow way to see her pause stubbornly. She doesn’t leave until Mr Stevens has placed rather a large amount of money into her outstretched hand. Then she is gone before Phillip can think of a single thing to say to her.

Mr Stevens returns to the table. “You did well, Phillip.” He claps one hand on Phillip’s shoulder, almost as if they are friends. “You handled that very well. Better than I thought you would.”

“Thank you,” Phillip mumbles, because compliments are few and far between and there are days when he aches for them. Even the ones that make him die inside. There is a solid clunk as Mr Stevens sets a glass of whiskey in front of Phillip along with the bottle.

“Drink,” he says. “Consider it a toast to your future.”

In that moment, there is no future Phillip wants to be a part of. But he takes the drink and swallows deeply. He would prefer to down the whole bottle.

* * *

After that, Phillip sometimes dreams that he is dominating someone. Who they are does not matter, changes from night to night. Mostly they are a faceless stranger, but sometimes it is someone he knows. Perhaps one of the pretty girls he has danced with at a party. He dreams about hurting them and hurting them and hurting them.

If he were to recount these dreams to anyone, he knows they would say he is finally accepting who he is, who he needs to be. Those other dreams he had, of soft submission, of gentle kisses and giving power over to someone else, they were just a phase. This is reality.

That would not explain why Phillip wakes up cold and shaking after every one of those dreams.

\---

Phillip writes. He writes because it is what he is best at. He writes because he can get some of the things he feels onto the paper, even if he has to disguise it behind pretty symbolism and carefully coded metaphor. He can put some (but not all) of the words he wants to say into other people’s mouths, if he writes them down. He writes most of all because he finally figures out how this can get him out of his parents’ house.

By the time he is seventeen, verging on eighteen, Phillip has written his first play. He is in the process of getting it produced, in talks with the manager of a high class theatre company. His mother put them in touch with each other. It is the best thing she has done for her son in a long time.

Phillip has been at the theatre, listening to people read through his play and he comes home fighting a soft, fragile smile as he goes. Just a few more weeks, he tells himself. Just a few more weeks and then, if things go well, he will be able to move out. He will have money of his own, even if he does still have to rely on his father to begin with. It will be a start.

His fragile smile shatters when he gets home.

Mr Stevens is waiting for him in the hallway. It is a nasty shock, like cold oil being poured down Phillip’s body. Now that Phillip is older, is finally acting as he should, their sessions have gotten fewer and further between. It has been weeks since he last saw Mr Stevens. He had started to hope that he never would again.

“Don’t bother,” Mr Stevens says as Phillip starts to remove his coat. Phillip’s hands still on his buttons. “We’re going out,” the older man continues.

“Out?” Phillip echoes. He would rather have asked ‘we?’ because he has no desire to go anywhere with Mr Stevens.

“Yes, you imbecile. Out.” Mr Stevens stalks towards Phillip and grabs his arm, turning him back towards the door and steering him out of the house once more. “Come on,” he says, gruffly.

“My parents...” Phillip says, part of him clinging to a feeble hope that they will be wanting him back home.

“They know where you are.” Mr Stevens still does not let go of Phillip’s arm. He keeps hold of it until they have hailed a carriage and are on route to a destination Mr Stevens muttered to the driver. Even inside the carriage he sits uncomfortably close to Phillip. Phillip does not know why. He is not going to run and Mr Stevens knows that. Their legs press against each other in the small space.

“How is your play?” Mr Stevens asks after a while of silence between the two.

“My what?” Phillip had not been expecting to make small talk and the question stalls him. A sharp smack to the back of his head has him focussed again.

“Idiot,” Mr Stevens murmurs. One of his favourite names for Phillip. “I asked how your play is. You need to answer when people speak to you.”

“It... is going well.” Phillip does not know how else to describe it. It is the best thing that has ever happened to Phillip. But he is not about to divulge as much, not to Mr Stevens of all people.

“If you were my son,” Mr Stevens states, “I would not be allowing it. Writing is hardly the most respectful of careers.”

Phillip remains still and stiff in his seat. He knows that if Mr Stevens wished to, if he said enough to Phillip’s father, then his play will never be performed. If Mr Stevens were to suggest it is too _submissive_ , Phillip will never be allowed to write again.

Mr Stevens laughs at his fear. “Do not trouble yourself, Phillip,” he says. “What you do with your life beyond this is of little consequence to me. This will probably be our last session together.”

Phillip whirls round at this. They’re so close that he almost knocks into Mr Stevens. The idea that this could be the last session; the last time Phillip has to see this man... something must show on his face because Mr Stevens laughs.

“No need to look quite so eager, Phillip. I will so miss our time together,” he teases in that slow drawling way of his. Phillip looks hastily away and does not respond and a few moments later, their carriage pulls to a halt.

Mr Stevens gets out first and as soon as Phillip is out, takes hold of his arm once more. He holds Phillip by the wrist, his fingers like a manacle. Phillip does not wish to be dragged so he follows after him.

They are in a rougher part of town. Phillip thinks that they might be close to where he went the night he ran away from home a few years ago. He has no idea why they would be coming here. There is no good reason he can think of. Of course, there is no good reason why Mr Stevens would be taking Phillip anywhere.

Still, the house Mr Stevens leads him into seems fairly normal. It’s rundown, as all the houses here are, but beyond that there is nothing out of the ordinary. Mr Stevens does not knock. He just pushes the door open and walks in as if it is his home. Phillip doesn’t believe that it is for a second. There is no chance that Mr Stevens would be living in a place like this. Certainly not with the amount of money Phillip’s parents pay him for their sessions.

Inside the house, things are slightly stranger. There is no furniture in the hallway, no carpets on the floor or pictures on the wall either. Maybe this is normal for a house around here. People do not have the money to waste on luxuries. More alarming to Phillip is the fact that there doesn’t seem to be anyone else there. No one comes out to greet them. Phillip cannot hear anyone in another room. He can hear blood pulsing in his ears, his heart rate quickened.

Mr Stevens tugs him towards the stairs. “Come on,” he grunts. When Phillip does not move quick enough he tugs again and then twists Phillip’s arm up behind his back, pushing him along in front now. “Come on,” Mr Stevens repeats. “Upstairs.”

The pulse in his ears is getting louder, more rapid. Upstairs means bedrooms. He does not want to be alone in a bedroom, in an empty house, with Mr Stevens. Phillip is at first relived when the room he is roughly shoved into appears to be almost as empty as the rest of the house. There is just one chair, set facing a small window. Mr Stevens does not let go of Phillip again until he has the boy sat in the chair. Then he stands behind him like a jailer, hands resting on the back of the chair near Phillip’s shoulders. He says nothing.

Staring resolutely straight ahead, Phillip looks out of the window. He hopes to distract himself with the view. He is reminded again that something is very wrong in this house. The window does not overlook the street, or a back yard. It looks down into a room on the floor below. Phillip inches forwards in his chair to observe the room properly. It seems to be a bedroom. A simple bed frame in the centre of the room, a chest of draws and a wardrobe. There are still no pictures, but objects hanging on the walls like strange decorations.

Alarm bells start ringing in Phillip’s head when he sees a whip, looped around a metal hook. Paddles hang beside it. Crops. Other objects Phillip does not recognise. He tries to rise from the chair, to get away from this somehow, but a firm hand on his shoulder keeps him. After a few minutes of watching an empty room equipped like a torture chamber, someone walks in.

She does not look up, but seems aware of their presence. Her every movement is carefully, artfully controlled – her bowed head, her loose, pliable muscles as she drops to her knees beside the bed. Phillip thinks at first that she is holding something behind her back until she shifts to the side, rearranging herself, and Phillip can see her hands are tied together at the wrist.

She is utterly naked. It is the first naked body Phillip has seen, other than his own, if you do not include the awful pictures he has been forced to look at during his sessions where he is made to be sick over and over again.

“Do you see her?” Mr Stevens purrs into Phillip’s ear. Phillip cannot help but see her, would be blind not to. She is on display to him. He can see every inch of taut muscle, every curve of her body. He can see the way her exposed nipples have grown stiff. “Watch her,” Mr Stevens murmurs near the soft swirls of Phillip’s ear.

Every nerve in Phillip’s body is attentive to the scene below. He does not wish to look at this woman and yet he cannot look elsewhere. He certainly does not want to look behind to see what Mr Stevens makes of this.

Someone else walks into the room where the woman waits. It is a man, fully dressed in counterpoint to the woman’s nudity. He also does not look up at where Phillip is sitting, but he does not bow his head. He strides towards the woman and bends to her. He grabs her by her bound wrists and jerks her to her feet so suddenly Phillip jumps. Mr Stevens laughs and Phillip can feel the man’s body pressed against his.

“Keep watching.”

This is like being in one of those aversion sessions again, where Phillip longs to look away but cannot. He watches as the man half throws the woman onto the bed. She lands facedown and stays that way, no attempt to get to her feet. Her legs remain spread wide from her landing and she does not try to close them or cover herself. He does not look away but as the man selects a crop from the wall and begins to use it on the woman without preamble, Phillip makes a choked noise.

There is, undeniably, something beautiful about the woman. Her skin pinks up quickly under the lash of the crop. She squirms a little, her glossy hair spreading over the pillow. There is something beautiful about the man standing over her too. He is good looking in a way that would make Phillip risk glancing at him a second time if they passed in the street. His muscles are evident beneath his shirt each time he raises his arm.

Something close to warmth is growing inside of Phillip, even as it disturbs him.

“That’s it, Phillip. Keep watching,” Mr Stevens repeats his earlier command. Lips brush against Phillip’s ear as the man brings the crop down on the woman’s ass again. Phillip jolts at the same time as the woman.

“W-What are you doing?!” he asks, indignant and appalled. Damn the consequences of talking back, he is not going to allow this. He starts to get to his feet, but a strong arm wraps around his shoulders from behind, forces him to sit. The legs of the chair scrape noisily and Phillip kicks the wall beneath the window in the struggle. The man pauses with the crop still in his hand. The woman twitches and moves her head ever so slightly towards the window.

In the room above, Mr Stevens has his hand clamped over Phillip’s mouth as the boy continues to struggle.

“Hush now, Phillip,” he intones. “All of this fuss you’re making. Do you want them looking? Do you want them to see you?”

Phillip stills. He does not want to be seen. Not in this position, with Mr Stevens holding him down as though he is little more than a child again. They would see the fear and panic in Phillip’s face, see him weak and submissive. They would see him inexplicably somehow aroused by what he has been witnessing. Shame claws at Phillip at the very notion of it.

“Better,” Mr Stevens mutters appreciatively. He pets at Phillip’s face as he moves the hand from his mouth, fingers trailing down Phillip’s neck. “That’s much better, Phillip.”

The pause only momentary, the man below puts down the crop and goes to select a different implement instead. He settles on a small, thick paddle and kneels on the mattress beside the woman. He smacks the paddle against her thigh and now the sound of her soft moans is loud enough to just reach Phillip. Mr Stevens continues his litany into Phillip’s ear.

“Watch. This is normal, Phillip.”

The woman moves up onto her knees, pushing her ass up. Mr Stevens runs his hands along the collar of Phillip’s coat, then down, undoing one button and then another. Phillip’s breathing stutters. “That’s it, Phillip. Do you see what he is doing to her? This is how things are meant to be for you.”

Phillip’s coat is unfastened and removed from his shoulders without him wishing it. Mr Stevens moves to the collar of his shirt now, undoing enough buttons that he can runs his foul fingers along Phillip’s collarbones, down over his chest. He kisses Phillip’s ear once, and then again, then the side of Phillip’s throat, mouth parted and lips rough.

“Stop it,” Phillip whimpers, squirming. “Please, stop it.”

Mr Stevens pinches his nipple in harsh response. Phillip cries and would have writhed out of his seat if Mr Stevens was not holding on to him so firmly. The woman cries out too, but distinctly more pleasurably than Phillip. If they can hear him, what will they think his noises mean? Would they think he was enjoying this too? Would they care if they knew the truth?

“Don’t mind what I am doing,” that awful voice purrs beside Phillip. “Pay attention to them. You like this, don’t you?” A hand palms at Phillip’s crotch, makes him gasp and curl in on himself. “Oooh, you really do like this...”

Phillip does not. Even if he did like the show that is being put on below – and he does not, not in this situation - he cannot ignore the hands on his body that he does not want there. He cannot even shut down completely, retreat inside his head. Everything is anchoring him to the present.

The man in the room begins to undress. All that power exposed.

Phillip’s own trousers are worked open, hands shoves inside of them as he sobs.

Lips and teeth graze Phillip’s throat as the man begins to fuck the woman. She remains kneeling, her head to one side so that Phillip can see her blissfully vacant face as the man strokes down her back.  Why can he not be like her? Controlled so tenderly, with so much care.

Mr Stevens bites Phillip’s neck and wraps one hand around Phillip’s cock. He fights it, but Mr Stevens is bigger than him, stronger, more dominating than Phillip ever will be. The chair gets knocked aside in their struggle but Phillip just ends up on his knees with Mr Stevens holding him close. His hand is still in Phillip’s trousers, still touching his cock. He strokes it while licking sweat from the back of Phillip’s neck.

“You need to learn what is normal. What it is right to feel pleasure from. What you are watching is normal.”

It does not matter how many times the word is repeated. This will never be normal.

Mr Stevens continues to stroke Phillip’s cock, his free hand playing with Phillip’s nipples almost lazily. Phillip can feel himself growing hard and he groans in disgust and fear and a desire to crawl out of his own body.

“That’s it, Phillip. Good boy.”

He continues and all the while the man and woman move together.

Phillip’s vision blurs with tears until he can see no more. Lips find his, are giving him kisses which are more like bites while he is pushed onto his back on the floor. The hands do not leave him.

 

 

 

Phillip comes back to himself. He is still lying on the floor. Tears coat his cheeks. His shirt is half un-tucked, pulled open. Something sticky coats Phillip’s stomach and stains the front of his trousers. He realises it his own seed and he moans like a felled animal. Somebody laughs above him and Phillip quickly scrambles to his knees. He needs to cover himself.

Mr Stevens is standing near the door. He is the picture of composure as he watches Phillip. He did not remove a single item of his own clothing throughout all of this. He even still has his coat on. Seeing that Phillip is starting to swim his way back to alertness, he simply nods to him, like acquaintances greeting each other in the street.

“I will see you around, I suppose, Mr Carlyle.” There is just the faintest smirk playing on his features as he says those words. He turns and opens the door, takes a step away before half turning back. He is apparently unable to resist his parting words.

“It is a pity, really,” he says, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You really would have made a very pretty sub.”

And then he is gone.

Phillip remains huddled on the floor for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos in the last chapter. It means a whole lot to me! I am kind of amazed that anyone read through the first 7k, so if you're still here now that means even more to me <3  
> Love you all.  
> Next chapter finally has an appearance from Phin and the rest of the circus. I promise.


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken such an age. I'm right in the middle of exams and they are slowly draining the life from me. I also had a massive confidence crisis part way through this chapter and felt like everything was rubbish. After a fair amount of editing, I think we're back on course!  
> No specific trigger warnings apply to this chapter.

For a long time, Phillip does not wish to get up. He lays there, the mess he has made clinging his clothes to him. He would like to never get up again. He would, given the chance, remain there until his body rots and the house collapses around him to form his tomb. But he knows he has to move. He does not know long he has been in this room but he knows that, sooner or later, someone will come. The thought of someone seeing him like this is enough to repel him into movement. He cleans up as best as he can. He even rights the chair that had been knocked over and returns it to its original position. Erase every trace of ever having been here. That is the most sensible thing to do. Phillip’s fingers tremble as he straightens and refastens his clothes. He leaves the house without encountering another soul and for that he will be grateful until his dying day.

Hailing a carriage is far beyond Phillip’s current capabilities. It would take too much thought, too many words. Just to say his home address seems impossible at the moment. Besides, he has no money on him. Having to go into the house, explain to his parents, beg money from his father... he would sooner perish. He walks the entire way home. By the time he arrives, his feet are throbbing with each step he takes. Blood pounds in those long healed scars. Phillip is only dimly aware of it. He is only dimly aware of the whole world. The street will not seem to keep still, even when Phillip stops walking.

Rather than go to the front door, Phillip trails round to the side of the house to the servant’s entrance. He slips inside his home like an intruder. He passes through the kitchen, where he has rarely had cause to go before. One of the maids is washing up at the sink and she reels back in alarm at the sight of Phillip but he doesn’t even look at her. He carries on to the hallway. Then he stands there, unsure of what to do next. To go upstairs to his own room, to perhaps never come downstairs again, sounds very tempting.

Still wary about making a noise, Phillip removes his shoes. He is clumsy in his movements, staggering and catching himself against the walls. When he does at last press his aching feet against the cool tiled floor he cannot keep back a groan. Then he is not sure if he is crying or not. He tries desperately to be quiet about it. Clearly, he is not trying hard enough.

“Phillip?”

Phillip’s head jerks up, the quick movement making his vision spin. His mother is peering over the banister from the first floor, evidently summoned by the racket Phillip is making. He cannot look up at her for long. He has to glance away, swaying where he stands.

“Phillip,” she says again, hurrying down the stairs. “What’s the matter?” She assesses the unsteadiness to his stance, the pale, almost grey tinge to his skin and bloodshot eyes. “Are you drunk?” she asks, a familiar coolness replacing the worry in her tone.

“No,” Phillip replies, hoping that the hollow steadiness of his voice will be enough to convince her. “But I do not feel well.”

And then he faints.

* * *

For over a week, Phillip takes to his room. He does not come out for meals. He does not wish to see or speak to anyone. He bathes in water nearly hot enough to blister his skin and would scrub at himself until he is raw but finds that he cannot bear to touch himself. His own flesh sickens him.

His parents do not know what happened. Phillip is sure of it. When Phillip had woken up, still on the hallway floor, his mother had been kneeling over him, shouting for someone to come and help. She had looked so damn concerned. Phillip had wanted to cry into her skirts like a little kid. She had wanted to summon a doctor but Phillip wouldn’t have let anyone near him and insisted that he just needed to rest.

The next day she looked in on him, going so far as to press her hand to his forehead to check for fever. Even his father appeared late that evening and said, awkwardly, that he had heard Phillip had been unwell. Phillip pretended to be too tired to speak.

When he does emerge from his room, Phillip is pale and withdrawn into himself. Both his parents continue to look at him with confusion and occasional concern. They do not mention Mr Stevens, and the man remains blessedly absent from their home. A couple of times, Phillip’s mother attempts to coax him into conversation about whatever might be troubling him and receives only short, negative answers in response. After a few days, his father informs Phillip that if he will not consent to see a doctor then they can only assume there is nothing physically wrong with him. If there is nothing wrong, then he needs to stop acting like there is. So Phillip has to put on yet another mask and act as though nothing has happened. 

It is not particularly comforting for Phillip to know that his parents are unaware of what happened in that final, awful session with Mr Stevens. They know well enough what happened in all of the other sessions. Why should this one be any different? Besides, the thought of telling them, of recounting the details to anyone is enough to make Phillip want to vomit.

Phillip’s play is shown and receives good reviews and audiences. He finds he cannot truly enjoy any of it. He goes to the party after the first show and drinks heavily. It numbs just as it always has. So he gets drunk the next night too. And the next. 

The one thing that does go some way to pull Phillip out of his melancholy is the money his play brings him. It is money which is truly his own, something he has never had before. It will not be enough, and writing plays is not reliable enough, for Phillip to move out on that alone. But, now that he is an adult, his parents cannot deny him an allowance which means he can finally, finally find a place of his own. As long as he continues to uphold the Carlyle family name, his father will continue to help fund his life. Phillip does not miss the threat in his father’s words when he explains this.

Phillip chooses an apartment in the city. It is a great deal smaller than his parents’ house but is nearly as lavish. Phillip would dearly love to leave home with a terrific scene. There are a great many things he would love to shout at his parents before soundly slamming the door and never seeing them again. Of course he can do none of those things. He invites his parents to dinner at his new home. His father surveys the rooms and the furniture Phillip has selected without comment, which means he can find nothing to pick fault with.

Phillip’s mother is more generous. “It’s wonderful,” she says as they are getting ready to leave. Phillip’s father is in another room and not around to hear this, or to back up his wife’s following statement. “We’re both so very proud of you, Phillip.”

Phillip makes a soft, noncommittal noise and, catching his sentiment, Evelyn corrects herself. “I am so very proud of you.” She attempts to pat Phillip’s shoulder, to perhaps draw him into an embrace. Phillip steps back to avoid it and she sighs heavily. “When did you get to be so cold, Phillip?” she asks, disappointment heavy in every word.

It is like being struck. Phillip is actually grateful when his father returns a few moments later, putting an end to the awkward interaction.

* * *

Living in an apartment subsidised by his father’s money is not the freedom Phillip would have chosen, but it is still wonderful. It is still freedom. It is probably the happiest Phillip has ever been. He revels in the small acts of liberation which were barred to him previously.

He can lock the door to every room in the apartment and only let in who he wants to, when he wants to. He can sleep in late on days when getting out of bed seems like too much effort. He grows his hair a little longer than would have been allowed to at home. It’s long enough now to flop into his eyes, to run his fingers through. He enjoys the process of styling it to perfection before leaving home; it gives his restless fingers something to do. When Phillip’s motivation to write returns, he no longer has to do it hunched over a desk in his room, writing frantically before someone can find him or before he is called away. Now he can spread his papers all over the apartment. 

Along with the money for the apartment, Phillip’s parents also hire a maid to clean and cook for him. Phillip would much rather they didn’t bother, he can take care of himself he is sure, but he knows they will never hear of it. Failing that, Phillip would prefer if Meg could move from his parent’s home – someone he already knows, already trusts, not a stranger. But he doesn’t know how to ask and he is sure the answer will be no anyway.

The girl they hire is called Georgette. She’s young, Phillip’s age, and just moved to America from France. With her petite frame and long blonde hair she is as pretty as any of the girls Phillip has ever been matched with by his parents. As uncomfortable as he is with the idea of having a maid, Phillip cannot help but like Georgette.

Phillip practices speaking French to her and she giggles at his terrible pronunciation. He makes his pronunciation even worse on purpose just to make her laugh more. It takes a while, but Phillip talks her into calling him by his first name. She pronounces it ‘Philippe’ and Phillip doesn’t once correct her. Phillip tries to help clean, sweeping the floors in the kitchen. Georgette wrestles the broom out his hands, proving a lot stronger than she looks, and stands guard in the doorway until he backs off and let’s her ‘work in peace’ as she demands.

One morning, Georgette comes in to find Phillip sprawled in the living room. He has bits of paper, snippets of ideas spread everywhere. She just tutts at the mess and tries to organise it for him. She shows him each piece of paper before stacking it where he tells her and reads none of it without Phillip saying she can. Phillip can’t say how it happens, but Georgette is unquestionably a friend. It has been a long, long time since Phillip had a friend.

* * *

For many, many days (weeks, months) after that last session with Mr Stevens, Phillip is sure he never wants another human to touch him again. But then there are other days, increasingly frequent other days, when he yearns for touch. He craves it more than anything else. He would gladly be carved open just to feel someone’s hands on his skin.

* * *

Phillip writes his second play in those early days living in his own apartment. It is part written from this new, frantic freedom he has gained. It is also partly written from a locked room in Phillip’s memory, where this is a chair, and a window, and hands all over him.

The end result is a story about a woman, a submissive, who is born with wings. She spends her entire life locked in a cage high off the ground. She is tormented and beaten every day. Eventually she stops eating until she is small enough to slip through the bars and escape. But the cage had never been big enough for her to learn to fly. So she falls. She breaks her legs on landing. She can’t walk, has to crawl around or rely on someone else to carry her.

It’s freedom, but limited.

The metaphor is hardly a subtle one.

Phillip’s parents are in the audience the first night of the show, and then at the party afterwards. It is a near perfect act of parental support. Only someone who has known them for a long time would notice the tension in Mrs Carlyle’s body, or the glare Mr Carlyle is concealing. After the party, Phillip’s father invites him back to the family home for the evening. Phillip knows it is not an invitation so much as it is summons to the gallows.

When they arrive home, Phillip’s mother retreats to her bedroom, claiming the evening has exhausted her. Phillip follows his father into the study, and then waits.

 Mr Carlyle selects a bottle of brandy and pours himself a glass. He does not shout, but Phillip feels like cowering all the same.

“You’re a coward, boy,” Phillip’s father tells him. “Hiding behind pretty words and fantasies. You take everything we have given you and throw it back in our faces.”  He pauses and sips his drink, then asks, “I expect you think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Phillip has rarely felt so stupid. He should have seen this coming.

His father does not bother with the cane, or the strap, or any other implement. He just hits Phillip. Hard. When he’s finished he tells Phillip, quite calmly, to stand.

“You are ungrateful,” he informs Phillip, who is still struggling to get to his feet. “If you wish to continue to be a part of this family, and the privilege that comes with it, then you will act like it.”

Phillip just nods. His lip is split and he doesn’t think he will be able to speak without spilling more blood. His father turns away from him and Phillip takes that as his dismissal. His hand is on the door when his father adds his final threat. 

“If one person, just one, suspects that there is truth in that ridiculous story of yours, you will regret the day you ever learnt to put pen to paper.”

Phillip nods again, even though his father cannot see him, and then leaves as quickly as he can after that.

When Georgette comes in to work the next morning, it is to find Phillip trying to patch himself up to the best of his ability. It is to her credit that she does not scream at the sight of the blood. She hardly reacts at all. She helps him, and does not ask a single question throughout.

Phillip cannot leave his apartment for a week. Even after that, he has to explain away the fading bruises. He makes up a story of a bar fight. If drunken brawls are beneath a man of his station, he is prepared to take the whispering behind his back.

By this time, every critic and theatre goer in the city has expressed an opinion on Phillip’s play. Nearly all are favourable. None suggests even a vague assumption at the true notion behind the story performed. Maybe Phillip is cleverer than both he and his father thinks after all. Phillip feels like celebrating. There are numerous associates – wealthy, respectable people – whom Phillip could choose to do so with. Instead, he asks Georgette out to dinner. She refuses at first, insists that she is beneath Phillip and cannot possibly accompany him. Phillip assures her there is no one he would rather spend an evening with.

The restaurant they go to is sophisticated and intimate. Georgette keeps staring around at the restaurant, at the table settings, at the other diners, as though she has never been in this kind of establishment before. Which, Phillip reminds himself, she probably hasn’t.

They laugh a lot that evening. Some of it is a silly, nervous kind of laughter. Phillip keeps glancing round to see who is watching, who will be talking the next day about how they saw Phillip Carlyle cavorting around town with a lower class girl.

It turns out to be quite a few people, actually. Word inevitably gets back to Phillip’s father. He is strangely not as angry as Phillip anticipated. If anything, he seems pleased and Phillip reminds himself that this is proof that all of his training has worked. He is attracted to a submissive. He has acted as a Dominant should. He is not punished.

“You cannot continue this. Not publicly,” his father says, speaking to Phillip as though they are something close to equals for the first time. “You need to find a wife from a good family. What you do in private is your own business.”

Phillip feels nauseated but says nothing of it. He does not tell his father that he has nothing to worry about. Phillip and Georgette will never be a couple.

When they returned from the restaurant, they had kissed. Had done more than kiss. Phillip had taken the lead, had exerted power as a Dominant should. But when Georgette began to lay herself out for him, her eyes lowered seductively, submissively, Phillip could go no further. He had pulled away from her, shaking. He’d cried into his hands and could not explain why. Not to Georgette, or to himself.

The next morning, Georgette acted as though nothing had happened.

All of his plays after that, Phillip writes with more care. The metaphors, if there are any, are subtle, reflecting things everyone already knows to be true rather than trying to reflect some deeper hidden message. And he never asks Georgette out to dinner again.

* * *

 

Phillip sees Mr Stevens once. Just once. Well it isn’t so much see as hear, as feel.

Phillip is at a party, is laughing and so isn’t paying that much attention to anything other than the people he is laughing with. Then there is a hand on his shoulder. It’s a casual touch no one would think twice about. One old acquaintance greeting another. The words he speaks are casual too.

“Phillip. It’s so good to see you.”

Phillip doesn’t respond. His mouth remains gummed shut, his body paralysed, until the hand leaves his shoulder and the man moves away from him once more.

 By the time he can bring himself to look around, Mr Stevens is gone. Disappeared back into the crowd. One of Phillip’s friends touches him on the arm and asks him what the matter is, then asks why Phillip flinched so badly.

Phillip can’t answer. He wants to leave, to run. But he also doesn’t dare move from that spot for another hour.

* * *

As a child Phillip may have been exposed to certain things most adults are never aware of but, living alone for the first time, he discovers he is still spectacularly naive about a great many things. There are certain things he just does not understand.

He struggles to give orders, to ask or demand anything from anyone. That he puts down to being ordered around by his father his entire life; how could he learn to give an order when he’s only ever had to take them? Even after so long of being told that ordering people around is exactly what he should be good at. He tries to tell himself it will just take practice. But it goes deeper than that. It should come naturally to a Dominant. When Phillip does give an order, the words taste wrong on his tongue. He over analyses every syllable. In truth, it sickens him.

Taking orders, on the other hand, is all too easy. Dominants are everywhere. They’re at the parties Phillip attends. They’re at the theatres he visits and at the restaurants he dines at. They’re at the horrendous evenings at his father’s house that he is still expected to be present at. Orders get flung about with only Phillip seemingly aware of their impact. Phillip’s first instinct is always to follow. To obey. When Phillip doesn’t obey – because he’s a Dominant, why should he – it eats away at him. He can be plagued with guilt and regret for hours afterwards.  (And sometimes there are Dominants which don’t seem quite so awful. They’re men with loud laughter and a personality which draws people to them. They’re witty and clever and they control without demand. Phillip would crawl to them, given half the chance. He would bend to their every whim. He hates this weakness in himself.)     

Hot on the heels of guilt follows the most distressing sensation of all. Phillip desires to be punished. The guilt he feels (when he disobeys, when he disappoints, when he upsets someone) is like a constricting belt around his chest. He longs for it to be lessened and he can only think of one way that will happen. Even when he apologises, it is not enough. If he were... dealt with how he should be, then he could absolve himself of this sensation.

Phillip thinks ‘conditioned’ and he feels worse than ever.

It’s takes a lot of research to finally find out the truth. He reads about Dominants, and typical behaviours and personalities and what is normal. That does not help. Phillip already knows all of this. It has been drummed into him since before he was old enough to know what a Dominant truly was. It does nothing to explain Phillip’s oddness. Desperate, he decides to branch out a little. He buys the sort of book he never would have been permitted at home. It is sensitive to submissives, describes them more than just in terms of animal parts and what a Dominant desires from them.  It is much like that book all those years ago, where Phillip first settled upon the word submissive to describe himself.

Phillip orders the book to be delivered to the apartment under a fake name. He doesn’t even trust Georgette to do it for him. He reads it late at night. It’s like being back in his father’s household, sneaking around for fear of a punishing hand which he realistically knows is not going to fall, but he still cannot shake the sensation.

Reading about submissive behaviours is hardly the comfort Phillip needs. He reads about how submissives can struggle to give orders – it is not their natural state – how obeying orders is second nature, is a relief rather than a burden. He reads about the concept of ‘subdrop’, the horrible sick sensation a sub can experience when a session with a dominant is not ended with care. Or when they disobey and are left for the guilt to eat away at them. Punishment for a sub, the book tells Phillip, is natural. How else are they supposed to move past any wrong doings? Cold, awful familiarity grips at Phillip.

He throws the book into the fire after that. He does not need to read further. He is a Dominant. A Dominant. He has spent years being moulded into a Dominant and he is one. Submissives are weak. Submissives get punished. Phillip will not be a sub. 

From that moment on, Phillip commits to being a Dominant. The very best image of a Dominant that he can be, even if he can never follow his actions through to completion. He dates girls he has no intention of marrying. He kisses them, experiments with them as much as they will permit. Some of them permit more than others. He breaks off with them all after a few dates. He gains a reputation as a heartbreaker. Scandal follows him, but it is the safe, acceptable type of scandal. He is just another one of many arrogant, careless young men who do not think of women’s emotions. That reputation hurts Phillip more than he lets on.

But, people talk. Rich people more than anyone else, it seems.

* * *

Later, Phillip would like to say that the circus was significant to him from the first time he heard it mentioned. It would be more poetic. More like something which might happen in one of his plays. In truth, it barely even registers at first.

He is at a party, half-conversing with a group of people his age. There is a very pretty girl who keeps trying to catch Phillip’s attention. Phillip is more interested in the contents of his wine glass, and keeps his gaze on the pale liquid, rather than the girl.

“I say,” one of his companions exclaims suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention to himself in that easy way which every other Dominant on the planet seems to have the knack for, “Have any of you heard about that new... establishment which just opened?”

Most everyone looks back blankly. There are a great number of new establishments which open up, and half as many which close down, on a regular basis. “You are going to have to be a little more specific than that, Oliver,” Phillip states bluntly, making the girl who seems so keen on him giggle. Phillip sips his wine to stop himself from apologising for his rudeness.

Oliver doesn’t seem at all bothered. If anything he seems more animated, as though he was just waiting for someone to ask. Which he probably was. “The museum. Or the circus, as they’re calling it now.”

There is a fair amount of giggling and whispering from the group at the word ‘circus’. From the name alone, it is hardly a reputable place. That will be enough to keep them talking for a while. Phillip’s glass is empty. He goes to get a refill, and the girl follows him. She catches him in conversation and by the time they return to the group, the girl now clinging to Phillip’s arm, the topic has changed.

* * *

The circus is mentioned again a few weeks later. Another party, another group of people. Phillip is the only male amongst a cluster of women and he likes it that way. With no Dominants to compare against, he doesn’t have to put up such an act.

Flora and Vicky have actually been to the circus. 

“We had to disguise ourselves, obviously,” explains Flora, breathless and keen. She’s speaking in a conspiratorial whisper which is no quieter than speaking normally. “Father would have been furious if he knew we had been there.”

“Why?” asks Phillip, not quite impressed yet. “Is it really so bad there?”

Vicky and Flora both giggle. So do some of the other girls although they know no more about the circus than Phillip.

“Oh Phillip,” says Vicky, as over excited as her sister. “It is nothing short of scandalous. People of all sorts on stage. All sizes, shapes, colours.” Phillip winces a little. “Some of them seem to not be natural creatures at all. There is one woman who...”

Phillip does not wish to listen. He does not care to know what marks out a woman as being unnatural, as being a creature rather than a human being. Phillip already knows all about unnaturalness. He lets the conversation wash over him apathetically.

But talk of the circus becomes unavoidable. The people Phillip finds himself surrounded by are relentless when it comes to any new subject to gossip over. More people must go to see the circus, but none will admit to it other than those of Phillip’s age, who do so without their parent’s knowledge. Phillip hears more, in snatches of conversation and overheard whisperings. The acts range from the daring to the bizarre. The troupe itself consists of some of the strangest people, although how much of that is exaggerated, Phillip is unsure.

Quite the biggest topic of gossip is the ringmaster himself. Apparently he is nothing more than a tailor’s boy who worked at a mad idea and now dresses himself up as an elaborate showman. And, he is married to Charity Hallett.

Phillip never met the Hallett’s daughter. She is years older than him and when she was still a part of society, Phillip would have been little more than a boy, not trusted to be in public away from his father’s scrutiny. But the talk around her still lingers. It is often accompanied by mention of ‘her poor parents’ and what the shock must have done to them. They gave her everything, only for her to elope with a man far below her station. Whenever Phillip hears this story he thinks that Charity must be a very brave woman, to defy her parents and everything she has known for the sake of love. Phillip longs for some of that courage.

Georgette goes to the circus one evening and comes to work the next day enraptured. Her glowing review is a lot more reliable than the judgment of Phillip’s peers or indeed the actual reviews Phillip has read in the papers. Finally, he gives in to curiosity and goes to the circus. That is, he goes to the building. He certainly doesn’t go inside but even then it is not without risk. If he were even seen near here, his father would be furious. So he hangs back, tries to hide himself amongst the crowd like a thief. There is quite a crowd to hide amongst. There are people queuing up to go in, buying souvenirs, looking up at the gaudy posters adorning the building’s facade. When the doors open to admit customers, several children squeal with excitement, tugging at their parents to try and hurry them. Phillip has never seen people quite so keen to go to any kind of show before.

Phillip slips into a nearby bar and waits. He drinks alone. A couple of hours later he watches through the window at the stream of people leaving the circus. He recognises some of the same people who he saw queuing to get in. A couple of children dance past, trying to recreate a routine from the show. The adults all talk exuberantly. Every face seems happy.

Phillip waits until the streets are clear and goes home alone. He feels as though something more than a window separated him from those happy, carefree people that night.

* * *

“That’s them. Phillip, look.”

Phillip does not want to look. He is at a dance recital under duress from his parents who have, once again, been making vague – and not so vague – comments about his need to find a girl to ‘settle down’ with. Apparently there are several very eligible girls who will be attending. Phillip is expected to talk to and charm them all. Particularly, Phillip’s mother had reminded him, Sophie Grover. The recital consisted of several performances by different classes at the ballet school. Sophie performed a solo piece right at the end. The grand finale.

She had been rather enchanting. Phillip had watched her lithe form twisting, leaping, twirling. She had appeared more as an elegant bird than a young woman up on that stage. Unfortunately Phillip quickly discovers she is much less impressive when she isn’t dancing. 

Sophie is a brat, and a boring one at that. Phillip tried to talk to her with good humour, but she grated on his nerves. Now she is clutching at his arm and had just elbowed him in the ribs, right over his scar. He surreptitiously rubs at it while avoiding her second attempt to nudge a response out of him.

“That’s who?” he asks, dully. He follows where she is pointing with little attempt at subtlety towards a small family gathered on the other side of the room. Nothing stands out about them to Phillip; a man, a woman and their two daughters. “Am I supposed to know who they are?”

Beside Phillip, Sophie makes a mildly disgusted noise. “They’re the Barnums. You must know about them, surely.”

“The people who own the circus?” Phillip looks again at the family. “What are they doing here?”

Pleased to finally have Phillip’s apparent attention, Sophie clutches at his arm a little tighter and moves in to speak into his ear, despite there being nothing secretive about her words. “Their daughter was in the show. In one of the junior classes. It’s pointless, if you ask me, her joining this late. I started when I was three.”

Phillip had not asked Sophie and he ignores her as she continues to prattle on at him. Phillip is watching the Barnums. The older girl is still in her ballet outfit. Rather than join the other dancers from her class, she remains with her parents. There is a dejected look about her as she stares down at the floor in a way that is painfully familiar to Phillip. The girl’s father is talking passionately to her. Phillip is too far away and the room too crowded for him to catch any of the conversation but he can read the excited expression and hand gestures, the desperate attempts to engage the girl, just as easily as he recognises the girl’s despondence.

“Phillip!” Sophie moves her arm sharply towards Phillip’s ribs for a third time and now he untangles his arms from hers and steps back completely. The young woman glares at him. “Were you even listening to me?”

“Not really,” Phillip admits. “Were you saying something?”

“Yes,” snaps Sophie. “I was saying, isn’t it shocking that they even let the Barnums in here? I mean, it’s not exactly proper, is it?”

Phillip shrugs. “Isn’t it?”

Sophie actually stamps her foot. Phillip hasn’t seen anyone older than four do that before. “Oh,” she huffs, “you are boring, Phillip Carlyle.” Then she storms off to talk to one of the other young men who have been trailing after her all evening.

Phillip can live with that. Boring is safe. Boring never hurt anyone.

* * *

Phillip’s latest show is as successful as his previous ones had been. Critics are invited to watch a special preview performance and it receives the anticipated praises. Phillip is starting to recognise the same stock phrases pedalled out time and again. No one has anything new to say.

There is to be a party after the first public performance. Phillip will not be attending. He has much more pressing things to attend to. Such as the bottle of alcohol pressing against his chest from his inside pocket.

Leaning against the railings outside the theatre, Phillip swigs from the bottle. Drinking in the street isn’t really ‘proper’ but Phillip is past caring. He needs this. His plays are one of the few things that give him happiness and even they don’t seem to be working anymore. Alcohol is one of the few fallbacks he has left.

“Mr Carlyle?”

It takes Phillip a second to realise it is he who is being hailed. ‘Mr Carlyle’ has been his father for so long, it is still strange being referred to as such. It’s only when the call is followed by “did you produce this play?” that Phillip really pays attention.

Hurriedly, he swallows the alcohol to answer, relishing the familiar burn. “I sure did,” he makes a vague gesture back towards the theatre. “Refunds are available at the front box office.”

He doesn’t know what inspired him to say those words. It is just the sort of dark mood he is in tonight. This new play is awful. Everyone else must be able to see it too.

The man greeting him does not leave. Phillip has to quickly place the bottle aside in order to shake the hand being offered to him. “P.T. Barnum,” the man introduces himself. 

The handshake is strong and confident. It almost unbalances Phillip. A great deal about this man unbalances Phillip. He is so clearly a Dominant in his every mannerism. His grip on Phillip’s hand. The way he looks Phillip dead in the eye. Phillip has to fight not to lower his gaze. That tight handshake alone and he can already feel himself wanting to drop. He would let that handshake lead him into the night.

It is perverse, Phillip reminds himself, to be feeling this way. He is a Dominant too. This man is his equal in that regard.

“You’re from the circus?” Phillip asks, despite knowing the answer. He really just wants to fill the potential for silence. Silence is when he might do something he’ll regret. Like sinking to the ground in front of Barnum as his mind is telling him he should.

Barnum seems pleased to be asked this question. When he asks if Phillip has been to the circus, Phillip scoffs dismissively, “God, no,” and then instantly regrets it. It’s not just rude, his mind tells him. To a Dominant it is nothing short of disrespectful. Phillip should ask for forgiveness, or at least retribution. Instead he hastily adds, “Cut I have seen the crowds.” He cannot help but compare that happy, energised crowd to the sombre, restrained audience now filing out of the theatre behind them.

That he is selling virtue is a lie. He is selling what he knows people want to see, which is what they already know. His plays do not reach far. They are not grand or outrageous. They show the audience their own lives. And therein lies the very problem Phillip has been having of late. Writing was meant to be an escape. It was not meant to paint a prison cell and make it look blasé.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

It surprises Phillip. He cannot for the life of him imagine what Barnum could want from him. Certainly not anything which Phillip can give him.

Phillip is so shocked by the question that he agrees. It’s only after they’ve walked away that he remembers the perfectly good bottle of alcohol he left on the wall near the theatre.

* * *

“I think it’s closing,” Phillip says, needlessly.

They have just arrived outside a small bar. Thankfully it is nowhere Phillip is likely to be recognised. The fewer people who recognise him, and see him consorting with Barnum, the better. But judging by the patrons getting ready to leave inside, and the chairs being stacked on tables, they may have missed last orders.

Barnum waves off Phillip’s comment. “Not a problem,” he assures, catching the door as a customer leaves and holding it open for Phillip. “I know the bartender.”

Sure enough, the bartender greets Barnum cheerfully and has no problem with the two men arriving just as he’s getting ready to close for the evening.

“They serve the best whiskey here,” says Barnum, gesturing for the bottle while still hanging up his coat. “You’ll like it.”

“I can almost guarantee I’ve already tried it,” Phillip replies, stiffly. He hangs up his hat and starts to remove his own coat, only to feel Barnum’s hands upon his shoulders. Phillip ducks out of the way, glaring. The door being held open for him is one thing. Allowing a man he has known for all of ten minutes to take his coat is another thing entirely.

“I am a Dominant, Mr Barnum,” Phillip snaps, his voice like acid. “I do not need your assistance with this.”

Barnum stands back with his hands raised in surrender. If he’s surprised by Phillip’s reaction, h does not show it. “I never said otherwise. Forgive me if I misstepped. I can assure you I meant nothing by it.”

Maybe he didn’t, Phillip thinks. Maybe in Barnum’s world that sort of thing is just a friendly gesture. It is that thought alone which stops Phillip from leaving. Still keeping his glare fixed on Barnum, Phillip places his coat and scarf on a spare hook. After thinking it over for a second, he loosens his tie, too. It’s been choking him like a noose.

As Barnum takes a seat at the bar, Phillip reminds himself that feeling anger or annoyance towards this man is not a bad thing. Anger is not attraction. Attraction is what he cannot allow himself to feel, and what he has undeniably been suppressing since that handshake. It’s still there now. It’s the kind of attraction which means he would rather kneel at Barnum’s feet than take the chair beside him.

He takes the chair.

“Why did you bring me here, Mr Barnum?” he asks.

“Because,” says Barnum, drawing himself unnecessarily close to Phillip, “I have a proposal for you.”

The bartender pours them each a drink and Barnum hands over money before Phillip can stop him. At least Barnum was right about the whiskey. It is good. Phillip doesn’t even mind when his glass is refilled and paid for again as Barnum explains his proposal. Phillip tells himself that this is repayment for the bottle he abandoned back at the theatre. Behind them, the last few customers leave the bar.

It is Phillip’s intention to hear Barnum out. Let him talk until he runs out of words. It is a business technique he learned from his father; wait and see what hole the other person is about to dig for themselves before you get involved.  Phillip fails after only a few seconds though. Why anyone would _want_ to appeal to ‘the snobs’ as Barnum puts it is beyond Phillip.

“If you only knew how suffocating they are...” he murmurs. He’s never voiced that opinion before. Not to anyone. Barnum’s eyes spark and Phillip realises that, although this may not have been the answer he was hoping for, it will serve Barnum’s purpose just fine.

“So come and join the circus,” he suggests, as though he has suggested Phillip do something as simple as go for a walk. “You clearly have a flare for show business.”

Phillip isn’t sure precisely what show business is but he can guarantee it is not respectable. Barnum’s assurances that Phillip could teach him to appeal to the upper classes do little to convince him otherwise.

When the man goes so far as to place his hand upon Phillip’s shoulder – a bold move after what happened with Phillip’s coat – Phillip removes it firmly. “Mr Barnum,” he says in a tone he hopes is just as firm. “I can’t just run off and join the circus.”

“Why not? Sounds thrilling, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s just say that I find it much more comfortable admiring your show from afar.”

“Comfort. The enemy of progress.”

Another drink is being poured for Phillip. He pushes it away. Barnum’s tone is so casual. He has no idea that he is speaking about something which could both give Phillip the world and bring it crashing down around him. So Phillip tells him exactly what is at stake here. His inheritance could be lost over nothing more than the two of them associating together. He does not mention that the freedom he has so carefully cultivated would be lost with it.

Oh but now there is an all too knowing look in Barnum’s eyes, and apparently he knows exactly what Phillip could be losing. He also knows what Phillip could be gaining.

Phillip has never been ‘a free man’ in his life. With that potential, he is sold even before Barnum starts to truly pitch his idea of freedom.  There wasn’t really any possibility of Phillip saying no when that was placed in front of him. That does not mean he is going to make things easy. Although God knows the man is hypnotic enough. His hands flick and flare in front of Phillip’s face as he talks, either a deliberate distraction or just unable to keep his fervour contained. The longer Barnum carries on uninterrupted, the bolder his movements get. He risks touching Phillip again, even playing with the ends of his tie. Phillip watches his every movement until those hands are safely far away from him again.

Phillip is not about to throw himself blindly out of a cage and hope that he will to learn to fly during the descent. He will need something much more substantial to aid his fall first.

Seven is a ridiculously low number. Phillip has no trouble at all in dismissing it although he knows equally that eighteen will be laughed at. In this case literally. With each rebuttal it gets harder for Phillip to hold his ground. _You should give in,_ a voice inside of him is saying. _You’re asking for far more than you deserve._ That and, _You shouldn’t argue back._

“Ten.” It is Phillip’s last stand. If this is rejected he may crumble.

He gets lucky. It ends up being ten, and Phillip paying for the drinks. Good. Another chance to get back on an equal level with a fellow Dominant.

“Sir, it looks like you have yourself a junior partner.” The honorific slips out before Phillip can stop it. He hopes it sounds jovial, rather than submissive. Just like he hopes ‘over compensated apprentice’ is not an attempt at putting Phillip back in his place.

Phillip had told Barnum that he could not run off and join the circus. Before the end of the night, he has done just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is what keeps me going. I love you all. <3


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well , here we are again! This chapter got away from me a little, and didn't end at all where I thought it might. Looks like this fic is going to be even longer than first expected. Oh well! Hopefully that's a good thing as some of these scenes were way too much fun to write and I've got some more planned that I am really looking forward to. I hope you enjoy them too :)
> 
> No specific warnings apply to this chapter other than me taking liberties with members of the troupe and expanding them for my own purposes.

The circus is a rebellion against everything Phillip has ever known. It assaults him as soon as he steps through the doors the following evening. Barnum had invited him to watch the show and to meet the performers and although Phillip had a full day in which to prepare himself – in between nursing the after effects of drinking with Barnum – he still remains thrown off balance from the moment he arrives. 

He arrives after the show has already started, to avoid the crowds and to hopefully slip in through the back door unseen. Before the door has even finished swinging shut behind him however, a strong, powerful arm wraps itself around his shoulders.

“Phillip!” Barnum calls with unnecessary volume given their proximity. “I was wondering when you might turn up. Come on, let me show you around.”

Phillip has little choice but to go with him. The showman’s arm remains around his shoulders. It doesn’t feel as awkward as Phillip would like. It feels dangerously comforting instead.

Phillip soon realises that if he had hoped for a quiet entrance, sneaking backstage mid-show was the wrong way to go about it. At his plays, the actors all sat quietly backstage, waiting for their cue. Here, no one seems to be still at all, and they’re certainly not quiet. The noise from the stage, loud music, singing, shouting, the audience calling back, is enough to mask the general hubbub back here.

Barnum introduces Phillip to everyone they pass, and Phillip tries his best to remember their genuine names over their stage names. Phillip sees the little deceptions in every act – the padding to make the Lord of Leeds look larger than ever, the stilts to make the Irish Giant taller. But he does not miss the genuine either. Like the voice of the bearded lady. Or the grace of the acrobats or the fearlessness of the trapeze artists swinging through the air. Phillip especially does not miss the trapeze artists.

He has been following Barnum. Very much not like a puppy, he is quick to tell himself. More like a lost little boy who took a wrong turn on his way home and stumbled into another world. He is, irrationally, stupidly, scared to be left behind even in the circus. An awful thought, a fleeting urge to clutch at Barnum’s sleeve occurs to him but he quickly tampers that down. Still, he is following Barnum, close behind him as they sprint up the last few steps and Barnum pulls back the curtain with a flourish. Phillip stumbles out onto the balcony.

In the space between one breath and another, the world stands still. It is as though time itself is suspended from the trapeze, held at one perilous moment before it falls and Phillip’s entire being will follow it.

The girl swings towards them, her body arching upwards with the momentum. Her gaze meets Phillip’s as though she had been waiting just for him. She is a girl of pink hair and purple clothes and dark skin but none of that matters to Phillip. He barely even registers it on his peripheral vision. All that really matters is the girl’s eyes, that intense stare which pierces right to the soul of Phillip’s being. It has been a long, long time since Phillip allowed anyone to look into his eyes like that. It has been longer still since any Dominant – and this girl is a dominant, there is no denying it – looked at him like that, as though they not only know what Phillip truly is, but that they would allow that part of him. They would care for it. Perhaps no one ever has looked at Phillip in that manner. Phillip removes his hat as some distant instinct to show respect where it is due.

In the heartbeat before the trapeze swings back, takes the girl out of Phillip’s reach, Phillip can feel himself falling, dropping. The urge to physically drop, to go to his knees, is strong and insistent. He should kneel. He should show her what he has always told he must never be.

He does not.

The trapeze snaps backwards and away from Phillip, and time restarts.

“Who was that?” is all Phillip can ask, his voice quiet and hoarse. Barnum is, of course, all too happy to show him.

* * *

“Everyone’s got an act.”

Those words are a bit like being struck. With those words, it is as though this woman has seen straight through to Phillip’s core. Does she know? She can’t possibly know. They have only just met.

But it is not just the words. It is the look in her eye, the way her gaze lingers on Phillip as she says it, and as she starts to walk away. Phillip turns to watch after her. Every step she takes is as graceful on the ground as she is in the air and every movement as captivating as a Dominant’s should be. It is a magnetism Phillip knows he can try to imitate for the rest of his life and not get close to.

He is aware of Barnum’s eyes on him, watching him watching Anne. Phillip has never felt so torn, pulled in so many directions and trying to hide so much. Then Barnum calls him away and he nearly bumps straight into Anne’s brother.

W.D. Wheeler is, quite clearly, a Dominant too, and Phillip prides himself on not cowering before the glare he is treated to.

* * *

Phillip wakes early the next morning, and still finds he is later than he would have wished. He had hoped to arrive at the circus early enough that no one else would be around to see him. Regardless, he has a sense of purpose in his day which has not been there before. He has somewhere to be other than his own apartment. He did not think that would be a sensation which he enjoys as much as he does.

Georgette comments on his new sense of urgency as he eats breakfast standing up in the kitchen. He evades her questions and simply says he has “things to do today.” She comments that he seems happier too and Phillip says nothing at all in response to that.

There are already people making their way to work as Phillip heads towards the theatre. This is exactly what Phillip had been hoping to avoid and he keeps his head low, hoping he will not encounter any of the men his father conducts business with. Not that, he reminds himself, there is anything wrong with walking in this direction. There could be any number of places he could be going to this morning.

A horse car stops at the side of the road and Phillip hangs back to let the crowd of people get off without barging through them. He’s not really looking at the people, so he misses the girl waving at him until she is right in his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to neatly side step her when he realises she is actually waving at him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, feeling foolish. “Do I know you?”

Her smile doesn’t falter much. “You’re Phillip Carlyle, aren’t you?”

Phillip nods.

“I’m Rosie,” she says gently, as though this might jog Phillip’s memory. “Rose? From the circus? Barnum introduced us last night.”

“Oh! I am sorry,” Phillip says for a third time and perhaps meaning it a little more now he knows what he’s actually sorry for. “Mr Barnum introduced me to a lot of people last night.”

He shakes the hand being offered to him and he and Rosie start to walk in the same direction. Being in the presence of someone else from the circus does little to soothe Phillip’s fears about being recognised.

“I don’t blame you for not remembering me,” says Rosie, not sounding at all offended. “Everyone is busy concentrating on Denny. They’re more interesting in the knife thrower than the person she’s throwing them at. She’s the professional and I’m just her assistant.” She grins. “A bit like you and Barnum.”

Phillip can’t work out if he’s being insulted or teased. Before he can think what to say there’s a sharp voice from beside them.

“Rosie. You’re being rude.”

Phillip turns to look at the woman keeping pace with him on his other side. He had barely noticed her before, partly because she hadn’t spoken or so much as looked at him and partly because she had and still does have a book raised so close it obscures most of her face. She snaps the books closed now and glares at Rosie. Phillip has no trouble recognising her as Deng Yan, the ‘professional’ half of the knife throwing act.

“Sorry,” says Rosie quickly, looking a little humbled. “I didn’t mean it.”

“And you’re doing yourself a disservice,” Deng Yan presses. “You are not just an assistant.” She turns to Phillip and fixes him with her glare as though he may be in any doubt of this. “It takes a lot of skill to do what she does. She’s also the contortionist.”

“It takes trust to do what I do,” Rosie mumbles, not quite as bubbling over with energy as she had been before. “And the contortionist stuff is just being bendy. Most people could do it if they stretched enough.” She looks at Phillip in assessment. “I bet you could do it. I bet you’re bendy enough.” She adds the last bit with a wicked little twist to her smile. It’s only when Deng Yan says ‘Rosie!’ again, sounding more exasperated than truly scolding that Phillip realises Rosie was probably flirting with him. He can feel the heat rise in his face as Rosie laughs and quickens her pace enough to stay a little ahead of them. She keeps looking back over her shoulder to grin at Phillip.

“She’s not normally like this,” comments Deng, slipping her book into her bag as they trail after Rosie. Her English is flawless but still carries a strange accent Phillip can’t place. “We are working on her self confidence and she does not always achieve the right balance between confident and obnoxious. And we travelled around a lot before this. She is still getting used to having people we see every day. Regular work colleagues. Friends.” Phillip isn’t sure he qualifies as either yet but he doesn’t dare correct her and risk having that fearsome gaze turned his way again. He may fall under it.

“I think she is...perfectly charming, Miss Yan,” he says instead.

Deng Yan laughs loudly. It’s an unexpectedly high, giggly laugh. Phillip had been expecting a refined, smirk of laughter from proper, upright, intimidating Deng Yan. Everything about the way she walks and talks is stiff and formal and perhaps a little bit scary. Her laughter is a stark contrast.

“You don’t need to lie, Mr Carlyle,” she reassures him. “And you don’t need to call me Miss Yan. It’s Deng.” She does not smile while she says it. Phillip is unsure if it is an open invitation or a challenge.

He walks the rest of the way to the circus with the two women. Deng says very little. Rosie says far too much, apparently unaware of the fact others might like to say something in reply. Then, a block away from the circus, she suddenly speeds up and runs the last few paces towards an alleyway. Another figure jumps out to meet her and for a moment Phillip is alarmed, sure that Rosie is being attacked as the other figure leaps at her. But Rosie lets out a joyful shout instead and returns the embrace which quickly becomes a playful scuffle at the side of the street.

“Good morning, Fedor,” says Deng Yan, to the Dog Boy whom Rosie is currently wrestling with. He calls his own greeting back at her and another to Phillip. Phillip barely murmurs a response. He cannot imagine any young woman that his family would know of, or any young man for that matter, who would so happily wrestle in the street.

“They do this every morning,” explains Deng Yan. As though that somehow makes it more acceptable.

It is a jarring start to the morning and things do not get any more settling as the day progresses. Phillip had seen a glimpse of the circus the night before. Now he is immersed in it. He is no longer a bystander shadowing Barnum. He had arrived with every intention of just sitting back and observing, looking for areas on which he can build the show’s reputation. Very swiftly he realises that is not to be the case.

Time and again he is called upon to help; to move props and set up scenes for the acts; to tend to the animals; to assist setting up the ropes for the trapeze act. Anne shows him how the rope is fastened, where to secure it and where to attach the counter weights. He keeps his gaze on her hands, watches every elegant movement they make. Her voice murmurs softly and much too close to Phillip’s ear to be accidental. He does not dare look her in the eye again. His world still feels thrown off its axis from the last time he did that.

A couple of hours before that evening’s show, the performers disperse to their dressing rooms. Phillip at last finds himself without anything to do. With no one instructing or _telling_ him what to do. It is not until that moment that Phillip realises he followed every order and instruction without question. He feels mildly ill at that prospect.

 _It’s called being helpful,_ he tells himself furiously. _You have to give them a reason to let you stay if that’s what you want._ And Phillip finds he does want to stay here. The intensity of his desire is alarming and completely unexpected.

Phillip wanders over to the seats and flops down with a groan. His muscles ache. He is far from idle normally but this kind of manual work is unlike anything Phillip has encountered before and it is not what he had been anticipating to say the least. His feet, in particular, throb. He lifts one foot over his other leg, squeezes it gently to try and ease some of the pain. It is barely effective. Somebody clears their throat and Phillip looks up with a wave of embarrassment and a growing flush to his cheeks.

Barnum is swaggering towards him across the stage, clearly very pleased about something – his circus, or Phillip’s presence, or just with himself.

“What’s the matter, Carlyle?” he asks, lightly. “Not used to a hard day’s work? You know you’ve got to pull your weight around here.”

Going redder by the second, Phillip gets up quickly, masking the fresh stabbing sensation in his feet.

“I’m joking,” Barnum says quickly. “Sit down, you look like you’re about to fall.” He’s saying it all in that same teasing, joking manner but there is perhaps genuine concern behind his words.

“I’m fine,” Phillip replies, still standing. Then, because he does not want silence to set in, he adds, “This is all just a lot to get used to. I didn’t expect to be so... involved.”

Barnum laughs. It is already a familiar sound to Phillip and it makes his insides warm each time he hears it. “We all get involved here. You don’t see me sitting behind a desk all day.”

“Maybe someone should be,” Phillip quips back. He can do this easy, carefree banter. All those parties he attended are finally coming in useful. It’s when people try to pry deeper that the problems start. “The practicalities of running this show must extend beyond putting on a fancy coat and standing in the spotlight.”

“Ahh, Phillip.” Barnum is close enough now that he can sling an arm around Phillip’s shoulders. Phillip tenses but allows himself to be steered across the stage. “The practicalities are all in hand. More or less. And now that I have my _apprentice_ ,” he puts an emphasis on the word, a little spark in his eyes as he lets them linger on Phillip’s still blushing face, “I’ll have all the more time to focus on them. Or at least I will have someone else to do it for me.”

Barnum guides him backstage, where they are surrounded by the hubbub of performers prior to show time. Phillip is glad of it. He does not want to find out what will happen if he is alone with Barnum for any length of time.

The whole day, the whole circus, has been bizarre and nothing more so than Barnum. He is a Dominant, no question about it, yet he dominates in a way Phillip has never known before. He does not hold it over those around him. He does not intimidate or belittle submissives, of which there are undoubtedly quite a few within the troupe. He is not at war with the other Dominants around him, trying to cow them down to be lesser than he is. He is patient with the acts. He banters easily with Lettie. He is on friendly, cordial terms with Anne, allowing the woman a degree of personal space and privacy he permits almost no one else.

Anne herself remains a detached mystery. Phillip finds that while he had avoided it previously, he now wants, dearly, to look into her eyes again. He wants it almost as much as he fears it. She is a lure Phillip cannot stay away from. Barnum, on the other hand, is already deep beneath Phillip’s skin.

Phillip goes home that evening infatuated with three things: the trapeze artist, the ringmaster, and the circus itself.

* * *

Phillip never spent much time with children before. He has no siblings, something he could never decide if he was grateful or regretful about. A sibling would have staved off some of the aching loneliness he felt. They would have been a companion. But he can’t bring himself to wish his childhood upon anyone else. A sibling would have, at best, been a further witness to some of Phillip’s most degrading moments. At worst, they would have been a victim of the same treatment. So it is probably for the best.

At the majority of the parties and functions he attended, children were not common place. They were all kept out of the way so as not to interfere or disrupt the festivities. But at the few parties where children were in attendance, Phillip couldn’t help but like them. Their honesty and openness was refreshing, when matched with the closed off world Phillip normally inhabited. He tried not to dwell too hard on the fact that, in a few years, these children would become a part of that world. They would become just like their parents. What was even more surprising than Phillip liking children was that children seemed to like Phillip too. They were drawn to him. The girls wanted him to dance with them. The boys tried to get Phillip involved in their games. When Phillip could, he indulged them. He showed the girls how to waltz a few, simple steps. He let the boys climb onto his back and hang off of his arms.

It inevitably ended with parents herding their children away, apologise again and again to Phillip. Phillip never got the chance to say he didn’t mind. He got on with those children better than he did his peers.

So it is not really a shock to him that when Barnum’s daughters visit the circus, a few days after Phillip joins, they latch onto Phillip within seconds of meeting him. Helen says he has funny clothes, but reassures him that she likes them. Caroline explains she just means posh clothes, and she asks him if he knows anything about ballet.  

Phillip tells Helen that he likes her dress, and says that if his clothes are so weird, maybe she should pick him out something else to wear. He endures being draped in whatever she pulls out of the costume store while talking to Caroline. Within the hour they are his loyal shadows.

But, meeting the girls also means meeting their mother, who is Charity Hallett. Who is in fact now Charity Barnum and has been so for a long time. That hurts far more than it should. Phillip knew Barnum was married, knew that he always had this perfect, happy, if slightly eccentric, family.  It hurts, especially, because Charity is really a lovely woman. Phillip cannot hate her.

She greets Phillip like an old friend. She asks after his mother and doesn’t even mention his father.

“I met her,” Charity explains. “A few times, at different functions. Back when my parents still thought they could make a respectable woman of me.” Barnum happens to be passing at that moment and snorts derisively and in a distinctly undignified manner. Charity doesn’t even look at him. “And then I ran away with that buffoon and they realised they’d been wasting their time all those years.”

Barnum kisses his wife on the cheek and she shoves him away playfully. Phillip watches them interact – with each other, with the girls, with the rest of the troupe – and feels nothing but confusion.

Charity Barnum is clearly a devoted wife, a wonderful mother and a lovely human being.

But she does not act as a submissive should.

She is not meek and quiet, waiting until she is spoken to. She does not dote on Barnum’s every request. Phillip watches them argue good naturedly for a good ten minutes. She gives orders and, more surprisingly still, they are obeyed.

Then Phillip witnesses something which shocks him more than anything he has seen at the circus so far.

Charity is getting ready to leave, is saying goodbye to Barnum. Phillip keeps his distance. He doesn’t want to hear exactly what pleasantries the two are exchanging. He is acting like a sulky child and he hates himself for it. So he makes himself watch, at least, as Barnum kisses his wife goodbye. So he is still watching when Merryn, one of the albino dancers, comes over to speak with Barnum.

Phillip doesn’t know Merryn very well; the majority of the troupe, while welcoming, still regard him as an outside figure. One they are unsure if they can trust. But, what Phillip does know about Merryn, is that she is a sub. It is in her every mannerism. Even as Phillip watches her now, it is clear to see. She talks to Barnum with a respectful gap between her and him. Her head is bowed, eyes lowered as she talks to him. She does not, Phillip notes, seem unhappy about this. She is smiling at least, and making little explanatory gestures with her hands. This is just how Merryn expresses herself around Dominants. It is how she is most comfortable.

Then Charity asks Merryn a question and the albino woman turns towards her. And... nothing changes. She doesn’t meet Charity’s gaze. She keeps her frame slight and respectful. She continues to talk while snatching little glances up through her eyelashes. Charity talks to her with a soft, affectionate smile.

Phillip stands rigid. The rope he had been coiling neatly away hangs limply from his hands. He watches Barnum and Charity and Merryn in a way that would be most rude if any of them where to turn and see him. When Charity leaves and Barnum and Merryn walk off towards the stage area, still talking, Phillip continues to stare at the space where they had once been.

Charity Barnum is a Dominant. She and her husband are both Dominants and they are very much, very clearly, in love with each other. Phillip understands that now and nothing else makes sense. That shouldn’t be possible. That’s not how it works.

It is ridiculously unfair. Charity gets to be a Dom – a real Dom not the make-believe shell of one which Phillip is – and she still gets to be married to Barnum.

Phillip really would hate her if he didn’t like her so much.

* * *

It is inevitable that word of Phillip’s association with the circus will make it back to his parents. No matter how careful he is, how much sneaking around he does, they will find out. It’s only a matter of time. Phillip decides to tell them first. At least this way it’s on his terms. He visits his parents for dinner, which might in itself be cause for them to wonder what he wants. It is rare indeed for Phillip to instigate a visit. Normally he waits until he is summoned and then only when he cannot avoid it.

Rarer still, he lingers after dinner. He waits until his mother has left the table and even allows her to place a kiss on his forehead. All those years Phillip was growing up, and she didn’t show him a second’s affection. Only now that Phillip is the finished product does she want to get close to him. Phillip cannot bear the hypocrisy but he tolerates it on this occasion. He remains at the table and sips brandy with his father, making some of the most stilted conversation of his life until he can bring the subject round to the circus.

“It’s purely a business arrangement,” he tells his father. “I won’t be... associating with those people any more than necessary, believe me.” Barnum and Anne, the whole troupe flash through Phillip’s mind and guilt nags at him for saying those words. He is saying what he needs to, not what he truly believes. “People flock to see that show,” he adds, because his father is yet to say anything and until he does, Phillip feels he should keep fighting his corner.

His father makes a dismissive sound. “ _People_ ,” he says at last, sneering the word. “The calibre of _people_ at that show. In the audience, on the stage-”

Phillip interrupts his father before he can say anything further. “I know,” he says swiftly. “But they’re still people,” he ignores his father’s muttered ‘hardly’, “and they pay money, what little money that have to see that show. If they want to pour money into something that... crude, then I don’t see why someone with some sense shouldn’t benefit from it.”

His father stares at him critically for a long moment. Phillip ignores his every instinct and stares right back. It is his father who looks away first, albeit just to pour himself another drink. “You have done nothing but write stories for years, and now you want to pretend you understand business,” he murmurs against the rim of his glass.

Phillip sips his own drink, tries not to show how rattled he is. “The audience numbers are steady, even with the protestors, and the reviews. I’ve seen the figures.”

“Have you now? With that man at the helm it is a wonder.”

Phillip drinks again to stop himself from defending Barnum. If this keeps up, he will have drunk his father’s liquor supply dry by the end of the evening.

Mr Carlyle downs his own drink in one quick movement and sets the glass down on the table a little harder than necessary. He gets to his feet just as abruptly, making Phillip flinch. Seeing this, his father smirks. “It will end in ruin,” he states, matter-of-factly. “For that show, for Barnum and for everyone else associated with it.”

Not so long ago, Phillip would have been inclined to believe his father. Now he is no longer so sure. But he still says, “I know,” because he knows that is what his father wants to hear, and it is what Phillip has rehearsed for inside his head. “I plan to be out long before it comes to that.”

His father chuckles unpleasantly. “And how exactly would you know when to do that? You do not possess a shred of business sense, boy.”

Phillip had been ready for that, too. “Then perhaps it is time that I learnt.” Then Phillip waits. He bites the inside of his lip to keep from saying more. Now he needs to wait. Don’t give away any more than is necessary, he thinks, remembering another lesson from the man stood in front of him. The knowledge that he is using his father’s own technique back at him warms Phillip more than the alcohol.

Mr Carlyle considers his son for a long, tense moment. “Very well,” he says eventually. Phillip fights to control his expression, to not show the hope that is suddenly soaring inside of him. “But,” his father continues, and Phillip had anticipated there would be a ‘but’, “you will only remain in this venture while I see fit. It is, as you said, to be a business venture alone. You are not to associate with those people. You are not to be...cavorting around with them, as though you are one of them. You are a Carlyle. You are better than them, even if you have done your utmost to behave otherwise.” 

Phillip nods, slowly, taking in his father’s words. Mr Carlyle no longer needs to use actual threats on his son. The knowledge is already ingrained. Phillip agrees to what his father is saying, as calmly and respectfully as he can without, as his father would be all too quick to pounce upon, grovelling like a submissive. 

It is perhaps the first victory Phillip has ever truly had against his father. It is certainly the first time he has made a solemn promise to his father, and left already knowing that he intends to break it.

* * *

There comes a time, not too long after that conversation, when Phillip briefly thinks that it might be a good idea for his father to witness precisely how involved he gets in the show. He might just die of shock on the spot.

It is hard not to get involved when you are backstage during the show. The manic rush of performers, scrambling in and out of costumes, getting props on standby, it would be rude of Phillip to just stand there in the midst of all that. So he finds himself on his hands and knees.

Deng Yan has a quick costume change, out of her beautiful, elaborate dress which she wears for one of the group numbers, into her more practical but only slightly less elaborate knife throwing attire.

“This is ridiculous,” she growls vehemently.  She viciously tugs a necklace from around her throat. “I am telling Barnum tomorrow. Rosie and I can switch places with the acrobats. This change is too quick. It is impossible.”

There are at least four pairs of hands on her, helping her out of one costume and into the next. Phillip is on shoe duty. This involves kneeling at Deng Yan’s feet as she rages and Phillip telling himself how very wrong this position is, when in it also feels like coming home.

“Then you tell him tomorrow,” says Anne. “For now, stop talking and start dressing. Or undressing, in this case.” She unfastens the back of Deng’s dress and lets it fall to the floor. Deng steps out of the dress and kicks it aside without hesitation. She is already wearing most of her costume underneath, what little there is of it. Modesty is a luxury the performers can’t afford, be it in the dressing room or on stage. Phillip keeps his gaze fixed determinedly on the boots he is guiding Deng’s feet into.

“I would like to see Barnum do this change,” Deng spits out while adjusting her shoulder straps.

“I think quite a lot of people would like to see that,” comments Lettie while piling Deng’s hair up into a remarkably neat bun. The girls all giggle. Phillip laces Deng’s boots in silence.

Nea steps back enough to contemplate the makeup she had franticly been applying to Deng’s face. “Perfect,” she states, before rushing away to retouch the golden paint she adorns her body with. 

Anne checks Deng is securely in her costume before declaring, “Done.”

Lettie pushes the last hairpin into place. “And here.”

“And here,” Phillip echoes as he finishes with the second boot and scrambles back out of the way to let Deng get past. She runs to the edge of the stage just as Barnum is announcing her. Rosie is waiting for her there having just completed her own miracle quick change. As Phillip gets to his feet, brushing himself down, Rosie extends one arm towards her partner. Deng grabs her hand and squeezes tightly in the second before they dash out onto the stage together. The crowd cheers at their appearance. Their hands remain linked as the curtain closes behind them.

“They make a good couple, don’t they?”

Phillip jumps.

Without him realising, Anne has moved much closer to him. She is now right at his shoulder. She’s so close he can smell her perfume. It’s a cheap scent that sits on a table in the dressing room. All the girls share it. But on Anne it somehow smells different. Phillip wants to breathe it in for ever. He realises she is still looking at him, waiting for his answer.

He looks back at the space where Deng and Rosie have just disappeared from view. “I... I really couldn’t say.”

And he really can’t. He doesn’t know if she means couple as in two people, as in a partnership, or if she truly means _a couple_. He hadn’t given the latter any thought because he had not thought it would be an option. Certainly not one so easily accepted as to be freely discussed like this.

“Oh come on,” prompts Anne. “They’re adorable.”

“I suppose.” Phillip pauses, choosing his words carefully. “They’re very close,” he says eventually, which is true enough. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He likes Rosie, despite her intensity, and the fact that she has absolutely no boundaries. He likes Deng too, despite the fact that she has boundaries so big you could build a house with them, and she still scares him a little.

Phillip can acknowledge that, despite being a woman, Deng is probably a Dominant. It would only be right for her to be accepted here, just as much as any other oddity is. But being in a relationship with another woman, with Rosie... That should probably make people, make Phillip, think differently about her. It doesn’t, but Phillip knows it should. He’s been led to believe it should, anyway.

Clearly deciding she is not going to get a sensible answer from him, Anne just pats his arm gently (making Phillip’s heart leap as she does so) and walks away from him. Against his better judgment, Phillip finds himself watching her walk away. The fluid movement of her body would be hypnotic for anyone to watch, Phillip reassures himself. His gaze is drawn to the back of her costume. One of the ribbons has come undone, leaving the fabric loose and several more inches of her back bare than usual.

“Miss Wheeler,” he calls quickly, his voice catching a little on the way out. She turns smoothly, as though she had been waiting for him to call her back.

“Yes, Mr Carlyle?” she responds with a smirk. The rest of the troupe seems to find Phillip’s formality very funny.

“You... I mean, your costume...” Phillip gestures at Anne’s clothing and then towards his own back, making a little tying movement with his hands. Bemused, Anne peers over one shoulder.

“Oh.” She moves her hands up to refasten her costume, her fingers catching the edge of the ribbon. Then she pauses, lets her hands drop. She turns her back to him and once more looks back over her shoulder. A few delicate strands of pink hair frame her face as her dark eyes fix on Phillip. “Tie it up for me.”

If Phillip’s heart leapt when Anne touched his arm, it is nothing compared to what it is doing now. Someone may as well be performing trapeze acts inside of his chest. Phillip knows an order when he hears one. Just so there’s no mistake, at his hesitation Anne’s eyebrows raise and she says, “Phillip,” voice feather light and heavy with expectation at the same time.

Everything in Phillip’s brain is telling him to refuse. He needn’t be rude about it. He could easily pass it off as a joke. He could point out the impropriety of the action, his hands against her skin and the costume which covers fractionally more than undergarments would. But there was no such thing as impropriety here, and Anne is still staring at him. And everything in Phillip’s body is telling him to do as she asks.

Not that she is asking.

The few steps towards Anne may as well have been a chasm for Phillip to cross. He manages it, although later he can’t remember how. Anne moves her head to look away from him and he is grateful. He is closer to her than he ever has been before. With his common sense still telling him not to, he raises hands to the ribbon.

“Do you need me to tell you how to do that?”

It seems a ridiculous question, but the way Anne asks it, it sounds like she may be asking for something much deeper. Phillip replies in a half whisper that he’s fine and Anne shivers, his breath tickling against her neck.

It takes only a few seconds for Phillip to fasten the back of Anne’s costume. He pulls the ribbons tight, twists them over into a knot and then a neat little bow.

“All done,” he says with no small amount of relief. He steps back quickly, glad to have a more courteous distance between them once more. He can breathe a little easier.

“Perfect.” Anne turns to him once more. “Thank you, Phillip.” Then she hurries away to take up her starting place in the rafters.

It is with an unpleasant twist in his gut that Phillip looks around and realises this interaction has been observed. Barnum is standing not very far away, grinning all over his face. Phillip is not sure if it is embarrassment, or regret or even some weirdly misplaced guilt which stabs at him.

* * *

It is not just Barnum who has witnessed Phillip and Anne together. W.D. Wheeler corners Phillip alone in the office he now shares with Barnum. W.D. flings the door open with such force that it hits the wall and bounces back again, making the glass judder. Phillip opens his mouth to ask what the matter is only to find the other man crossing the room towards him and getting right in Phillip’s face. To say that Phillip is startled is an understatement. From the little Phillip knows of W.D., he is a quiet man. Phillip has never seen him angry or violent before. And he is clearly both of those things now. He shoves Phillip hard, crowding him against the desk. Shock quickly turns to alarm and then genuine fear as W.D. fills every inch of Phillip’s personal space. His body tenses, anticipating a blow at any moment. 

W.D. does not hit Phillip. Instead, he gets his face close and growls, “You need to back off.” He is quite a bit taller, a fact which Phillip can’t say he is grateful to be reminded of at this moment. For a second, Phillip thinks of his father, of Mr Stevens towering over him. A panicked cry or a sob is building inside of Phillip’s throat and he needs to do something, say something in order to stop it.

He braces his hands on the solid wood of the desk and forces himself to focus on his surroundings. The cluttered office space, so full of messy, homely comforts from pictures on the wall to the comfortable chair in the corner, is a world away from any room his father has ever inhabited.

Phillip squares his shoulders and stands up straighter, trying to match the sudden animosity.

“It is not me who needs to back off,” Phillip says smartly. “I am not the one bursting into private offices, shoving people around-”

“Not from me,” W.D. clarifies, voice still an angry snarl. “From Anne.”  He does not shove Phillip again. He grabs the front of his shirt and holds him uncomfortably close. Phillip’s breathing quickens pace. He is steeling himself for a fight and he doesn’t even know truly what they are fighting about.

That much at least is made clear when, with his face inches away from Phillip’s W.D. half spits, “She is a Dominant, Carlyle.”

“I-I know that,” Phillip splutters. W.D. may as well have just informed him that the sky is blue or that grass is green. Phillip wants to pull W.D.’s hands from his clothing, but he doesn’t know if he is strong enough.

“Do you?” W.D. persists. “Do you really? Because you could have fooled me. I see you, the way you moon over her.”

“I do not... moon over her! And I have done nothing to her. I do little more than talk to her.”

W.D. at last releases Phillip with a dismissive huff air. “Oh please. The way you look at her...”

“And what about the way she looks at me?” Phillip snaps. There is genuine heat behind his words, scared though he may still be.

W.D. does not answer. “She is a Dominant,” he says again. “She is not a submissive who needs to be shown her place.” Phillip splutters on words as W.D. continues to talk over him. “She will not change. She does not need to change. She is not waiting for some rich pretty boy to come along and turn her.”

Any lingering anger, or confusion leaves Phillip. Mortification replaces it. The thought sickens him. Surprisingly, it also makes him calm. “W.D.,” he says as evenly as his dissipating fear will allow. “I do not want to change Anne. I would never do that to her.”

W.D. murmurs agreement, still glaring. “You would have to answer to me if you did.”

“I wouldn’t anyway. The very notion makes me ill.” Then, because he feels like he needs to clarify it still, “I have done nothing to Anne. Nor will I.”  

W.D. continues to glower at Phillip, evidently searching for any trace of deception or untruth. He must come to the conclusion that there is none to be found because after a few seconds, he nods once, and relaxes his stance. “Good.” He straightens his own shirt and then reaches out to do the same to Phillip’s jacket, smoothing out the creases where he grabbed him. Phillip holds back from cringing away. “Very good. So long as we have that clear.”

Then he turns and leaves without another word, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Several seconds pass. When Phillip  is sure W.D. will not be returning, he sinks to the floor. He does not even make it to the chair. He just sits where he was standing, the desk pressing against his back acting as an anchor to reality. It has been a while since Phillip has been shouted at like that, since he had been knocked around made to feel weak and powerless. With the threat now gone, Phillip allows himself to feel the full force of what had just happened. He shakes with the aftershock. All the while, W.D.’s words ring in his head.

Unbidden images fill Phillip’s mind. Memories he had long thought dead reawaken. He rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands, as though he can scrub the visions away.

 _You need to stop this_ , he tells himself. _You need to stop acting like this_.

But a small part of him cannot help but question why. The notion of Anne, broken and moulded and reshaped into something other than what she already is makes Phillip so unwell he fears he may vomit.  So why should Phillip not feel the same way about his own past?

The answer is, of course, because it has already happened. Phillip cannot change a thing about it. He is what he has been made to become. For better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are the troupe all so fun to write?  
> I am sorry if any of the troupe is not how you envision their personality to be. These are just my ideas. I am looking forward to you and I both getting to know them more as the story continues.  
> Love you all!


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter was betaed by the very talented and lovely [Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus)  
> ! All mistakes all mistakes are still my own but I am very grateful for the help.

Being close to Barnum is not an experience Phillip thinks he will ever get used to. He does not particularly enjoy being close to anyone. He would much prefer a safe few feet around him at all times. Barnum has no such qualms. He is either unaware of Phillip’s concerns, or chooses to ignore them. If anything, he seems determined to break the wall Phillip has so carefully built around himself, at every given opportunity.

It’s small gestures, really. Every day, he is greeted by Barnum’s firm handshake and then often by an arm around his shoulders, steering him, leading him away to conspiratorial conversation. Not that the things they discuss are particularly conspiratorial: business, the running of the show, new acts. Barnum tries, a few times, to ask Phillip about his family. Phillip learns quickly to keep a stock of conversation changers in mind for those occasions.

Just once, Barnum says, “I’d like to meet your parents, Phillip.”

Phillip tries to remain impassive as he responds that he does not think that would work. “They do not... fully approve of my involvement in the circus,” he explains.

“Then perhaps I need to convince them that I’m not leading their only son into trouble.”

The thought of Barnum meeting his parents makes Phillip go cold. He tries his best to hide what he is feeling but some of it must show because Barnum grimaces sympathetically and says, “Perhaps not.” He does not bring up the notion again. Privately, Phillip thinks that Barnum is doing a very good job of leading him into a whole realm of trouble.

If Barnum passes by Phillip in the course of his duties around the circus, he will place a hand on his shoulder, his arm, always some friendly, reassuring touch. It does very little to reassure Phillip. It makes his pulse spark, but not in the way it would coming from most people. Every time Barnum is near him, looking at him, Phillip finds himself stuck.

To say that the older man’s eyes are pools for Philip to drown in would be both a cliché, and doing him an injustice. Drowning would suggest a struggle, would suggest Phillip would be unwilling. Phillip wants to lose himself inside of Barnum, longs for it and dreads it in equal, terrifying measure.

All of this is to say that, when Phillip finds himself leaning over the same desk as Barnum, breathing the same air as him while they look over budgets for the upcoming month of shows, Phillip has had a lot of practice at acting as though this is normal. This is fine. He just has to keep reminding himself how very fine it is. They are just work colleagues, pressed so closely together due to the cramped room and the small desk, not for any other reason. They are discussing money, finances, nothing more titillating or secretive than that. The door is even propped open, because Phillip prefers it that way and Barnum has no objections. And yet...

Barnum’s hand brushes Phillip’s as they both reach for a list of their ticket sales and he doesn’t apologise. He keeps their hands close, their fingertips on the precipice of touching again. There is a lull in their discussion. Phillip keeps his eyes downcast to their work, all the while knowing that Barnum’s stare is fixed on him. He can feel it like a thousand pinpricks on his skin. If he turns his head, if he looks up now, there will be such little room between them. Even less than there already is.

Phillip plucks the list from Barnum’s hand delicately. He surveys it as though it is the most fascinating literature in the world. After the moment, he needs to keep his head clear so he takes a resolute step back, away from the desk and the ringleader, too.

“We need to increase revenue from our ticket sales,” he says, firmly and not for the first time.

“We have full audiences every night.” There is a touch of the defensive to Barnum’s tone. That or, perhaps, uncertainty. As though the show’s success is a fact that he still needs to remind himself of from time to time. It’s probably the former option. Insecure is one thing Phillip is sure Barnum never could be.

“Then we need to increase ticket prices,” Phillip suggests instead. They need to increase their income either way.

Barnum shakes his head, dismissing that notion too. “Most of the people who come to see us cannot afford higher prices. They’re working people, people who save up to come here. They’re not like your fancy theatre friends who can afford to go to a show every weekend.” Barnum’s tone is playful but it still makes Phillip wince internally, particularly as Barnum adds, “If more of the upper class crowd were willing to attend, then we could charge more for some seats. We could keep other seats cheaper for the rest of us riffraff.”

Phillip looks up sharply, the reply of ‘You’re not riffraff’ already on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t want Barnum to believe that’s what Phillip thinks of him, of the people who attend the show. It’s only as he looks up that Phillip realises he’s been caught. Because now he’s looking at Barnum’s grinning face, his relaxed frame as he leans languidly against the edge of the desk. He’s been watching Phillip’s every reaction and now he is watching still. Perhaps this is a test which Phillip is yet to pass. He turns his back on Barnum, trying to pass this off as a casual movement rather than an attempt to free himself from that ensnaring gaze. Phillip flops down into an empty chair and leans back, in an attempt to show he is every bit as at ease as Barnum. He looks back at the list in his hands, keeps his eyes downcast.

“This is why you hired me,” Phillip acknowledges. “To draw in that very crowd. I know that. I just haven’t figured out how yet.”  He sighs wearily and rubs his thumb over his bottom lip in thought. He would bite his nail if he were alone. “I’ll keep working on it,” he says resolutely, looking up at Barnum with new determination.

“I know you will,” says Barnum, just as friendly as ever and seemingly taken aback by Phillip’s earnest proclamation. His eyes flicker to Phillip’s mouth. Then, rather unexpectedly, he starts to laugh.

“What?” Phillip asks. He wasn’t aware of doing anything particularly funny, and he does not enjoy being laughed at.

“Nothing,” says Barnum, amusement still crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You just... you’ve got ink on yourself.” He touches the corner of his own mouth, mirroring where Phillip has been resting his hand.

Phillip looks down quickly at his thumb, which is indeed smudged dark. Phillip has evidently been gripping at the list hard enough to make the ink run. He sits up a little straighter, tries to wipe his face clean with the back of his hand.

“Now you’re smearing it,” Barnum comments as though this is all very entertaining. “You’re making it worse. Let me...” He takes a few steps closer, letting his offer hang in the air between them.

Phillip stills in his actions, weighs up the situation. Barnum is offering to wipe ink from his face. There is nothing perverse or risqué in that. There is no intimacy to it. Phillip despises himself for even having to question such a thing. He lets his hands drop to his lap and permits the other man to take a step closer.

There is hesitancy to Barnum’s movements, prepared for Phillip to rebuff him at every stage. He stands over Phillip, but does not crowd him. He takes Phillip’s chin in one hand, but lightly. It would take very little effort to knock him away. He pulls the cuff of his shirt sleeve over his hand and begins to dab at the ink.

At the first touch against his mouth, Phillip realises how wrong he had been. There is something very intimate about this.  Barnum knows it to. The tender way he looks at Phillip is completely uncalled for. So too is the way he pauses after a moment and holds his fabric covered hand to Phillip’s lips and commands, “Lick.”

“What?!” Phillip wrestles himself into a more upright position than the slump he has unknowingly sunk into. Barnum raises an eyebrow.

“It will be easier if it’s damp. And I figured you’d rather your own saliva than mine.”

Said in Barnum’s friendly, open tone, there is very little for Phillip to feel uneasy over. But there is still something decidedly suggestive about those words. His mind flicks back to Anne, how she ordered Phillip to tie the back of her costume. It had been a simple request which bridged an impossible gap. Barnum is now doing much the same.

 _He does this to tease you,_ Phillip tells himself. _He saw how ruffled you were with Anne and now he wishes to unnerve you further._

Phillip may hate Barnum forever if that is true. He glowers, looking the older man straight in the eye as he sticks out his tongue and wets the end of Barnum’s sleeve. He waits, for a teasing, cutting comment. Perhaps Barnum will remark on what a ‘good boy’ Phillip is for his compliance. (And no, Phillip certainly does not wish for that. Not even a little bit.)

No comment is forthcoming. Barnum merely wipes at Phillip’s face without so much as a smirk. Phillip can feel the outline of his thumb as it presses against his lip.

“Gone,” says Barnum. He makes no move to retract his hand. Phillip is imagining, he is sure, the way Barnum inclines his head infinitesimally closer.

There are sudden footsteps outside, taking the stairs to their office a few at a time. Barnum jerks away from Phillip as though he is suddenly red hot. Phillip scrambles to his feet, straightens his shirt unnecessarily. When W.D. appears in the open doorway a few seconds later, Phillip is sure they look far guiltier than if they had just remained where they were.

W.D. hesitates in the doorway, looking from Barnum, busying himself at the desk once more, to Phillip, rubbing lingering ink from his hand onto his trousers. He knocks unnecessarily. “Mr Barnum?”

Barnum looks up, as though he has only just noticed that they have a visitor. “Mr Wheeler!” he says, loud and cheerful and nothing-to-see-here-nothing-at-all. “How can I help you?”

W.D. clears his throat and takes a step inside the room. “I was wondering if I could have a word in private.”

“Of course.” Barnum sounds only a little surprised at the request. “If Phillip doesn’t mind...”

Phillip doesn’t mind. He has not spoken to W.D. since their altercation a few days prior. Phillip is all too eager to leave them to whatever conversation W.D. wishes to have in secret. He starts to hastily gather a few papers together to take with him; Phillip finds it much easier to not stand out amongst the circus team when he looks as though he is busy.

“Actually,” W.D. says hesitantly. He looks decidedly uncomfortable now as he shuffles into the room. “I meant a word in private with Mr Carlyle.”

Barnum’s brow furrows in confusion. He looks to Phillip who is nothing short of alarmed at the prospect. Phillip would much prefer to not be alone in a room with W.D. for the foreseeable future, but he has no way of saying that. And Barnum has yet to develop the ability to read minds, no matter how many times he may have seemed to see right through Phillip’s pretences.  

So, Barnum just shrugs instead. “Sure,” he says, grinning as he looks between the two men. “Far be it from me to outstay my welcome in my own office.”

“We can go somewhere else,” W.D. says quickly, which is a prospect Phillip likes even less.

It is a small relief when Barnum adds, just as quickly, “It was a joke, W.D.” He sweeps out from behind his desk and strolls to the door. He pauses there to look back at Phillip. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”

Phillip grunts a vague affirmative and watches as Barnum leaves, taking a lingering security with him. Phillip steels himself for whatever W.D. has to throw at him this time.

Only, it doesn’t really look as though W.D. is there to fight. He lingers still in the doorway. He makes no move to close the door, or to draw nearer to Phillip. Twice he clears his throat.

Eventually the waiting gets on Phillip’s nerves. “If you have come to warn me further...” he starts, only to be cut off by W.D. speaking at nearly the exact same time.

“I would like to apologise.”

Those are certainly not the words Phillip had been expecting. “Pardon?” he asks. Perhaps he misheard.

“I _need_ to apologise,” W.D. emphasises. He steps into the room at last and raises his gaze from the floor to somewhere a little closer to Phillip’s eyes. “For my actions and my words before. Anne told me I need to say that I am sorry and, I think she is right. I behaved unfairly towards you.”

“A little more than unfairly,” Phillip murmurs before he can stop himself. He and W.D. both flinch and that makes Phillip smile, just a little, to realise W.D. is just as taken aback by this situation as he is.

After a little more awkward silence, W.D. presses on. “You have to understand,” he urges, “she is my sister. It is my job to look out for her.”

“I do understand that,” Phillip assures him. He steps out from behind the desk, suddenly nowhere near as cautious as he had been before.

“I don’t think you do.” W.D. steps a little closer too, still keeping that safe, reassuring distance between them. “I don’t think you really do appreciate what that means for us.”

This isn’t going to go away. Phillip can tell that. Clearly this is something W.D. needs to say, has wanted to say for a while. “You could always tell me what it means,” Phillip suggests, “rather than shouting and... and knocking people around. Whoever said actions speak louder than words may have been wrong in this case. ”

W.D. snorts with laughter and then Phillip does, too. When they look at each other, it is still with hesitancy, but mildly less caution.

“She’s all I have left,” W.D. explains with a sigh. “I’m all _she’s_ got left. It’s been the two of us alone for a long time and that is a big thing for... people like us. We have to look out for each other. There is very little by the way of laws to protect us and even less by way of social convention. People could hurt us both. But Anne...” He trails off, his face contorting with anger momentarily. At least this time it is not aimed at Phillip. “That she is a Dominant means little. People see that as a challenge. That she just needs to be controlled.” He spits the word bitterly. “People have tried before. They have tried to hurt her.”

Anger boils inside of Phillip. He wants to know exactly who has tried to control Anne, to hurt her. He would rip apart their whole world if he were given the chance. For a moment, both Phillip and W.D. just stand there, each caught in their own awful headspaces with Anne at the centre.

Phillip takes a deep, calming breath.  “I would never try to control Anne,” he says. That he physically couldn’t, that he wouldn’t know how to even if she were a submissive, goes unspoken. “I would certainly never hurt her.” Not intentionally, he adds silently, because Phillip has no doubt in his mind that nothing good can come from Anne and him continuing down the road they are, against all better judgment, beginning to tread. “I have never harmed her. Have never and would never force her to so much as converse with me if she wanted otherwise.”

“That’s what Anne said. She told me that I was wrong about you and that I needed to apologise.” W.D. smiles, looking somewhat sheepish. “I think her words were ‘grovel if you have to’.”

“I’m sure it will not come to that.” Phillip is being more charitable than perhaps he should. He can still remember the feeling of W.D.’s fists held tight against him, can remember the raised tone to his voice and the angry words. But, when faced with the reality of what defending Anne means to her brother, Phillip supposes he cannot take things too personally. Moreover, a warm, unexpected bubble of hope is starting to form inside of Phillip. Anne had spoken on his behalf. She had demanded her brother apologise to him. That meant something.

“You were only acting as should be expected,” he reassures W.D., even if he doesn’t fully believe it. If Phillip chooses to stay out of range of W.D.’s fists for the foreseeable future, it is just common sense.

“Perhaps I overreacted. Slightly.”

“Slightly.”  

“But my apology still stands.”

“Forget about it,” Phillip says, meaning it. He would like to forget all about their previous conversation too.  

W.D. steps suddenly closer to Phillip and thrusts out one arm. Phillip recoils. Some noise of fright or alarm may escape his mouth, he is unsure. He feels like a fool a second later when he realises that W.D. is, of course, offering a handshake. He now frowns, looking down at his hand as though there might be something wrong with it.

Phillip grabs W.D.’s hand in a firm shake. His smile is a little shaken but it is returned by a near beam from W.D. and Phillip reminds himself yet again that he has never had an issue with the man before all of this.

W.D. releases Phillip and then stands awkwardly, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Anne reminded me that she doesn’t need me to fight her battles for her.”

The thought amuses Phillip. He can well imagine Anne telling her brother exactly that in far more forceful language. “She’s not wrong.”

W.D. shrugs. “She has been known to be. On one or two occasions.”

It feels, rather strangely, as though the two men are sharing a private joke. Phillip is still trying to decide how he feels about that, and what he should say next, when the moment is broken by the sound of shouting. W.D. and Phillip look at each other, puzzled.

The shouting gets louder. Without a word, both men leave the office and head downstairs, which is where the commotion seems to be coming from. They clear the stairs at a near sprint and nearly collide with Jeremy who is running back the other way.

Phillip catches his arm. “What’s wrong?” he asks, urgently.

“Deng Yan.” Jeremy has gone nastily pale and he pulls quickly out of Phillip’s limp hold. “I need to get the medical kit.”

Any lingering warmth inside of Phillip is doused in pure ice. He lets Jeremy go and, with W.D. close behind him, hurries in the opposite direction, towards the continued commotion.

A small knot of people are gathered close to the back door of the circus. When Phillip pushes his way through the troupe, he finds the swordswoman at the centre of the assembled group. She is huddled in on herself so it is hard to see exactly what the matter is. Constantine has one arm around her and is apparently trying to encourage her to pull her hands away from her face. Rosie is standing nearby, huddled against Lettie and looking as small and quiet as Phillip has ever seen her. Everyone is talking at once and before Phillip can make sense of it all, he feels strong, familiar hands on his shoulders.

“Let me through,” says Barnum, steering Phillip aside.

He reaches the front of the small crowd and, far from settling at the sight of their ringmaster, everyone starts talking louder, trying to explain. Barnum listens for a second before yelling over them all. “Everyone, shut up for five seconds!” It is the first time Phillip has ever heard him truly shout at the troupe. They all quieten as Barnum turns back to Deng. “Let me see,” he says, urgently but much softer than a moment before.

With Constantine’s arm around her, and Barnum bent close, Deng at lasts stands up straight and moves her hands from her face. Blood pools from her cupped hands, landing on the floor with a dull splatter. Rosie whimpers in Lettie’s embrace.

Barnum lets his breath out in a hiss like an angry snake. Very gently, very carefully, he tilts Deng’s head from side to side, inspecting the damage which seems to be mostly to her mouth. Her lip is split and more blood leaks out from between her clenched teeth. The knuckles of both her hands are split and bruised too. Barnum takes all this in and then turns to the others.

“Will someone,” he asks, “ _one_ person, please explain what happened?” For a moment, nobody speaks. “I need to know,” Barnum presses.

To nearly everyone’s surprise, it’s Merryn who breaks the silence. She’s clinging to her sister’s side as she whispers in a squeak still audible to the silent group, “She was fighting with the protestors.”

“I was not fighting!” Deng yells. It is a good job that Constantine still his arm around her. It is only him holding her back which stops Deng from launching herself at Merryn. Florence steps forward sharply to defend her sister and Barnum quickly gets between the two.

“Enough!” he shouts over the renewed ruckus. He turns back to Deng Yan. “I have told you not to fight with them. It will only give them more ammunition, make them think they’re right about all of you. If you hurt them and they report it... I need the police on our side, not arresting half of my staff. I’ve _told you_.”

“I was not fighting!” Deng says again. “If I had been fighting I would have taken my sword.” She speaks so vehemently that blood splatters the front of Barnum’s shirt but neither of them responds to it. A few members of the troupe giggle nervously at her words. Barnum’s mouth twitches into what might be a smirk. “I was defending,” Deng insists. “What was I supposed to do? He tried to... to grab at Rosie.”

Several people have angry words to say in response to that. Constantine tightens his grip into a fierce hug. Fedor actually growls. Without knowing he is going to do so, Phillip swears so violently that everyone looks at him in surprise. It makes Deng laugh her high, girlish giggle, only to break off with a yelp of pain. Barnum runs one hand through his hair before turning back to her.

“How did you leave him?” he asks.

“Unconscious.”

“Good girl,” says Barnum with genuine pride. Then he sighs and again runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it out of place. “And what about when he wakes up? What if he goes to the police?”

“I highly doubt,” says Deng, still managing to sound as intimidating as ever, “that he will want anyone to know that a woman could do that to him.”

Barnum is the only one who doesn’t seem cheered by those words. He inspects Deng’s face for a moment more, then steps back. “I’m taking you out of the show for the rest of the week.” He raises one hand to calm the angry rebuttal to his words. “It is not a punishment. You need to go with Jeremy and get stitched up. You’ll need to let it heal and not rip it open again singing.” Deng hesitates for a moment before murmuring her agreement. “Good. Now go and let someone else take care of you for a change.”

Deng does as she’s told without further comment, which is maybe a mark of how bad she is feeling. Constantine goes with her, still half supporting her despite her repeated insistence that she is ‘just fine’. From what Phillip can see of her face as she passes, she looks very far from fine. She looks ashen grey and Phillip can see the faint shadows of bruising starting to form. Rosie hurries along beside Deng on her other side, for once silent and subdued. A bloody trail drips onto the floor as they go.

“All right,” says Barnum, once the trio have left. “Everyone else, we still have a show tonight. Someone get the blood cleaned up and check the back door is locked. I don’t want any visitors who aren’t paying the entrance fee.” With his orders given and the troupe beginning to disperse, Barnum turns and walks swiftly back the way Phillip has just come, back towards their office. He is rubbing at his temple as though it pains him.

Instinctively, Phillip gives chase and is not surprised to find Lettie at his side. Looking at Barnum, Phillip does not see a Dominant in that moment. He doesn’t even see the man who is, technically, his boss. He just sees a friend who is somehow hurting.

“Barnum,” Lettie calls in an attempt to stop the fleeing man. Her voice is gentle, soothing. “Phineas?”

Barnum dodges the hand which Lettie reaches towards his arm and manages to make the movement look almost natural, as though he hadn’t noticed it.

“Barnum,” Phillip tries. “Are you... all right?” It seems a lame and useless question almost as soon as Phillip has spoken it. But he doesn’t know what else to ask, what else to say. Clearly the man is not okay but he now turns to face them. His face is a grim parody of its usual carefree smile.

“Am I all right?” he repeats. “It is not me you should be asking that. Not me you should be concerned for.” He looks Phillip over in a quick, sweeping assessment. “Are you all right? You have gone a little pale, Carlyle.”

“It is not the first time I have seen blood, Mr Barnum.” Phillip knows the other man is evading the question. He has been around Barnum just long enough to begin to get wise to his distractions and deflections. “You know, Deng will be fine,” he says, knowing where Barnum’s worry lies. “She’s tough.”

Barnum huffs.

“Phillip’s right,” Lettie insists. “She will be back to throwing knives and scaring us all into place in a couple of days.”

“Yes,” Barnum agrees, surprising them both. “ _This time_ , she will be fine. _This time_ it’s no great harm done. What about the next time?” Neither Lettie nor Phillip has an answer to that. They’re both knocked back into silence by the unexpected seriousness. “We can’t carry on like this. Protestors knocking down our door every night. I can’t protect them like this.”

“So,” says Lettie, considering. “We need something to drive the protestors away.”

“What would you suggest?” asks Barnum. “A lion at the back door?”

“Sarcasm is not helpful.”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? I think that would see off the protestors quite nicely. I hear the Queen of England has one in her menagerie, perhaps we could ask her for a loan.”

“Oh, I could just slap you sometimes, Barnum.” Lettie makes a light-hearted attempt to hit Barnum and he just catches her arm, some of that playfulness returning albeit more weary and tempered than usual. “I meant,” Lettie insists, through a tight hug with Barnum that is still part struggle to free her arm, “Like an action. A gesture. Something that will get the right kind of attention.”

“Yeah,” Barnum sighs. “Let me know when you’ve thought of one.”

Phillip doesn’t join in their friendly banter. He certainly makes no attempt to play, or to embrace either one of them. He just stands there, awkward and temporarily forgotten. There is a barrier that still remains up between Phillip and the rest of the troupe, between Phillip and Barnum. He doesn’t know how to break it down. He’s still not even sure if he wants to.

What he does know, is that he may have an idea for just the kind of gesture Lettie has in mind. How he’s going to make it happen is another matter.

* * *

Getting an invite to take a circus to see the queen of England is about as difficult as it sounds even with Phillip’s connections. It means chasing up people who owe him favours. It means, inevitably, informing his parents. When they learn that Phillip is attempting to secure an audience with Queen Victoria, they are as close to proud of him as Phillip has ever seen. His father is only too keen to help. It makes Phillip’s gut twist horribly.

His parents are less enamoured with the Royal visit when they learn the motivation behind it. One of his father’s associates is willing to help get Phillip that all important invite, but he wants to know the reason why. In some ways, it is a blessing that this is how the truth comes out. The other man’s presence means that Mr Carlyle has to keep his temper in check. He has to listen to Phillip as he talks through his plan. He has to, however grudgingly, admit that Phillip may just be on to something.

A Carlyle visiting the royal family is still a boost through society like no other, even if that Carlyle does it with a conman like Barnum at his side.

It takes two months for the letter to arrive. In that time, Deng’s face heals. The protestors remain outside every night. Some have taken to lingering after the show is over. They wait into the night. It’s not entirely clear what they plan to do to any members of the troupe they should catch alone, but no one is willing to risk finding out.

Lettie implements a system where none of the performers are allowed to leave on their own.

“That includes you, Carlyle,” she calls to Phillip, who hadn’t been paying much attention as she explained it.

“I am a Dominant,” Phillip snaps, his temper catching himself by surprise as much as it does anyone else. “I do not need a minder.”

He regrets his words as soon as he speaks them. Lettie’s expression clouds and her tone is brusque and lacking its usual warmth as she retorts, “It’s not about who is a Dominant and who is a submissive. Deng is a Dominant. They do not care about that. They just care about who makes an easy target of themselves.”

She is right, of course, and Phillip knows it too. He tracks her down in the dressing room before the show to apologise. He has to remind himself again and again that he is not apologising because she is a Dominant and he is... anything other than that. He would apologise to her no matter what her orientation was. This is not a sign of weakness. He has to repeat it to himself so much that he also has to mentally rehearse what it is that he is going to say to stop himself getting tongue tied. He is so busy thinking about all of this that it’s only after he has voiced his carefully worded remorse that he realises he has caught Lettie in the middle of getting changed. She’s holding her dress up with one hand and the fabric dips much lower than it should.

He turns bright red and continues further stammering ‘I’m so sorry!’ as he averts his eyes. In his haste to leave, he bumps into a dressing table, upsetting the makeup and brushes and sending them flying.  Perhaps Lettie finds clumsiness endearing. Perhaps she would have forgiven him anyway because she is, really, a very good friend and too kind for her own good. Either way, it is as though a cross word never went between them after that.

Phillip makes a point of walking out with a member of the troupe every night. Usually he walks with Deng and Rosie, who have to go in his direction anyway. A few times he leaves with Anne and W.D. and he gets the distinct impression from W.D. that this is very much not the direction they would normally be taking. If they double back after leaving Phillip, they have each other at least.

Some nights Phillip works so late that it is just he and Barnum left. They walk out together. The jeering from the protestors is just that little bit nastier when Barnum himself is present. The generic shouts of ‘freak’ can be replaced by more personal attacks. Barnum does not give the slightest indication of hearing their calls. This is the man who heard the word ‘circus’ and took it as a compliment.

The only signal that he is even aware of the mob’s presence is how close he sticks to Phillip’s side. Their arms nearly brush as they walk. Phillip folds his arms over his chest to stop himself from reaching out.

* * *

Phillip has been waiting at home for the post all morning. He’s actually just about to give up and head to the circus empty handed when the letter finally arrives. The wax seal is recognisable at once. He breaks it with uncertain hands and then reads the letter through twice just to make sure he’s not mistaken. Then he has to read it aloud to Georgette, who has been cleaning the same square inch of table for the past ten minutes in an effort to look as though she is not waiting for Phillip to do just that. She lets out a little squeal of excitement on his behalf and then shrieks as Phillip picks her up and spins her round. She is breathless and flushed pink when Phillip sets her back on her feet.

“Now go,” she says, grabbing his coat and thrusting it at him. “You have more important people to tell.”

Normally Phillip would try to correct her, would tell her that she is just as important as anyone else. On this occasion he is already out the door before he thinks to do so.

When Phillip arrives, some of the troupe are gathered around with the Barnums, listening to Bennett’s latest review of the circus, which varies very little from his last review. Phillip had not expected an audience when he presented this news to Barnum, but he can only see that as a good thing. It is only right that they share in this moment.

Their initial reaction is just as jubilant as Phillip had imagined. It is quickly doused a moment later.

“Are we _all_ invited?” Anne’s stare is resolute. She clutches her shawl a little closer for comfort, already anticipating the sting of the answer she expects to hear. Phillip takes great pleasure in proving her wrong just this once. It is worth it to see the look of surprise on her face, followed by the slowly growing smile that Phillip can only look at briefly. He is far too susceptible when Anne looks at him like that.

Her smile is almost, but not quite, enough to ease the sudden bone-deep misgivings Phillip is having about this whole idea.

* * *

While plans are finalised for the journey, Phillip avoids his parents like the plague. If he were a betting man, Phillip would put money on the fact that they are very much unaware that Phillip intends to uproot the entire circus to England, freaks and all. Phillip would like to keep it that way for as long as possible. They can’t very well stop him from going, now that the queen herself has invited him. Not even Phillip’s father has that sort of control, although he might like to think that he does.

Phillip watches the circus become even more frantic than usual. The audience is expected to be packed as people scramble for their last glimpse of the circus before they leave. On top of the shows, now there are preparations to be made, the journey to be organised, belongings to be packed and readied for transport.

Deng insists on unpacking and repacking three times as she keeps thinking her knives aren’t stored properly, or that she’s forgotten one of the blades, and insists that she needs to check right now. Lettie has been trying to get people organised while Phillip and Barnum take care of the business side of things and it’s the closest Phillip has ever seen her get to losing her temper. Even she doesn’t dare say much to Deng though.

The day before they are going to sail, Charity brings Caroline and Helen to see the show. Afterwards, Barnum invites Phillip to their house for dinner.

“The girls would love it,” he says, unnecessarily. The girls in question are currently all over Phillip. Caroline is on Phillip’s back and Helen is on top of her, trying to see if Phillip can lift them both at once. He can, just about, although he staggers and nearly drops them. Charity laughs but tells the girls to ‘get down and stop harassing Phillip’. Phillip sits down instead and lets Helen sit on his lap, Caroline at his side. They’re both looking at him eagerly, waiting for his answer.

“It’s your last night with your family for a while,” Phillip reminds Barnum. “I’m not going to intrude on that.”

“It wouldn’t be intruding,” Charity reassures him swiftly. There’s no hint of untruth in her words or her eagerness for Phillip to agree. “You could stay the night. You and Phineas will both be getting up early enough as it is. You might as well go together.”

“Please, Phillip?” asks Helen. Caroline says nothing at all but she nods excitedly, her eyes large and hopeful at the prospect.

It is a far more tempting offer than they realise. But, as this is the last day he will be in the country, Phillip can put off a trip to his parents no longer. They have been expecting to see him for days now and to avoid them altogether would be the equivalent of enraging a bear, and then thinking you were safe because you’d stepped behind a tree. It would only be delaying matters and giving his father the opportunity to work himself up into a temper bigger than any Philip had experienced for years.

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” he says, his chest panging at the crestfallen look on Helen’s face. Carline slumps a little beside him. “I have to have dinner with my parents. Another time, I will, I promise.”

“But you’ll be gone for months and months,” whines Helen.

Barnum’s eyebrows have raised significantly and he throws his hands up in amused exasperation. “They weren’t this upset about me leaving.”

Charity elbows him. “Hush. It’s wonderful that the girls like Phillip so much. And they see you every day normally.”

Barnum continues to grumble until Charity silences him with a soft, chaste kiss.

Phillip tries to ignore this. He gives Helen a squeeze and nudges Caroline with his elbow. “I’ll bring you each a dress back from London. Latest fashion as seen in the court of Queen Victoria.”

That cheers the girls up considerably and Charity says, “A much more sensible gift than their father’s suggestion. He was all for bringing them both back monkeys from the zoological gardens.”  

* * *

The discussion, such that it is, with Phillip’s parents is a long one. But, Phillip reflects afterwards, it does not go as badly as he might have thought. He leaves with only a stinging bruise over his left cheekbone and his father’s threats ringing in his ears.

“If you, or any of those freaks do anything to bring embarrassment upon our name, I wouldn’t even bother getting on the ship home.”

It is late when Phillip gets home and then he struggles to fall asleep. His mind is as tumultuous as any ocean. He has been preparing for this journey for so long, and yet he still feels underprepared. He frets about what may have been forgotten, or unprepared for. No matter how differently Phillip thinks to his father, he knows that neither his threat nor his concern is unfounded. There are a great many things which might occur on this visit to bring embarrassment to the Carlyle name. Phillip lists them all in his head and then reminds himself that, in the morning, he will be bound for England.   

Never will he have been so far away from his father’s influence. Rarely has he felt so trapped by it.

* * *

Phillip is woken in the morning, dripping wet and shivering cold. As Georgette throws his clothes at him, she informs him that dumping a jug of water over his head had been the best course of action. It had been the only way to rouse him. Phillip is sure she could have found a gentler method, but he doesn’t have time to object. He has slept in hours later than he should have done. The ship will be leaving port in less than half an hour.

It is a good thing that the majority of what Phillip is bringing has already been packed up and is being sent ahead to the docks with the rest of the luggage from the circus. All he has to do is throw on his clothes from the night before, grab a single travelling bag with his most essential items, and run.

The streets of New York seem particularly overcrowded. There seems to be at least double the normal amount of people swarming the pavement. Phillip ducks and dodges round them as he runs. Several times he bumps or knocks someone and doesn’t have the chance to apologise. He is past them before their angry shouts have a chance to register.

Phillip hears a church clock striking the hour as he arrives at the dock but it is almost drowned out by the noise of a ship getting ready to leave port. It is the very ship Phillip is aiming for and he knows it. The ship to England with the rest of the troupe is about to depart without him and it will be a long time before he can catch another. He can’t slow down. He nearly collides with a woman and only at the startled yelp of, “Phillip!” does he realise that it’s Charity, no doubt here to wave off her husband.

“Sorry!” he calls, raising one hand in the most sincere apology he can manage without slowing his pace. Steam from the ship’s funnels fills the air, making breathing and running even harder.

He gets to the edge of the docks just as the ship’s crew are getting ready to depart. They’re untying ropes, readying the gangplank to be lifted. “Wait!” Phillip yells. A quick glance up at the ship and Phillip sees a familiar group gathered at the railings, watching him, waving at him frantically to hurry up. “ _Wait_!”

The ship’s crew either do not hear Phillip or do not care. Phillip puts on a final burst of speed and gets his foot on the gangplank just as they begin to raise it. There is a good deal of angry yelling from the crew but also cheering from the troupe above. The momentum from his run sends Phillip sprinting and staggering up the ramp, unsure if he is about to pitch over the handrail or drop his bag over the side. At last he stumbles onto the deck and straight into Barnum, waiting to catch him at the top. Phillip has no time or ability to slow down and both men go flying, landing on the deck with a thump.

There is raucous laughter from the troupe, and from Barnum, and from the rest of the passengers who had been gathered on deck. Phillip is so out of breath he can only manage weak little giggles. He is still resting against Barnum’s chest where he landed, the other man’s arms holding him. Right now, he is too winded from his mad dash to the port and too relieved to care.

“You finally made it, Carlyle!” Jeremy calls, cheerfully.

“We were starting to think you’d got nervous and chickened out of coming,” says Constantine from somewhere to Phillip’s left.

“Yeah, me and Con had a bet over whether or not this was all some elaborate joke and you’d never intended to show up at all,” Charles adds. “Is this stuff important?”

Phillip turns his head to the side and sees Charles holding a book in one hand, studying the cover. Glancing around the deck, Phillip realises his bag has come open during his fall with Barnum and a good deal of its contents is now scattered around him.

“Oh shit,” Phillip groans between lingering giggles and gasps for air.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got it.” Lettie is already gathering clothes into her arms and refolding them into Phillip’s bag. She does a much neater job than Phillip did originally.

Phillip rolls off of Barnum and pushes himself into a seated position. The ship is moving. Phillip really did only just make it. A hand is thrust into Phillip’s eyeline and, just this once, he accepts it and lets Barnum haul him upright again.

“Pleasure to have you aboard,” says Barnum, as though he personally will be captaining this ship. Phillip wouldn’t put it past him. As they both get to their feet, however, that joviality falls away. He falters, looking at Phillip properly. His expression drops into one of gentle concern. He’s not the only one. Lettie had been about to offer Phillip’s bag back to him but is frozen with the same stricken expression as Barnum. “Phillip...” Barnum murmurs. “Your face.”

Phillip turns away quickly, raising one hand to his cheek where his father’s hand had made contact the night before. He hadn’t had the opportunity to check this morning, but if the reaction of Lettie and Barnum was anything to go by, it had darkened lividly overnight. The rest of the assembled troupe are staring, too.

“It’s nothing,” Phillip says hastily.

“It is not nothing!” Barnum’s shock and surprise are quickly changing to anger. “Someone’s hit you.” Phillip says nothing to the contrary. He has a lot of experience with bruises. He knows that there are some things you just can’t pass off as accidents. Without a response, Barnum presses. “Who?”

“Does it matter?” Phillip takes his bag from Lettie, a little rougher than is needed. He is acutely aware of everyone looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“Yes, it does matter.” Barnum steps closer, reaches out to touch Phillip’s face. Phillip steps back clearly. “I want to know.” Phillip tries to step around, to push past, but Barnum moves into his way once more. “Phillip. Talk to me.” He is blocking Phillip, not giving him enough room to think, let alone make an escape.

There is no point to hiding, or lying. Plenty of fathers hit their children. It’s normal, even if the extent and regularity that Phillip endures it is a little more than most. His father has his reasons. With this in mind, Phillip raises his chin a little higher, looking Barnum dead in the eye. He clutches the strap of his bag tighter. “It was my father,” he says, voice curt and crisp. “Satisfied?”

Barnum stares at him, just like Lettie and Charles and the others are staring. It is far from quiet up on the deck, what with the engines and the hubbub of passengers and crew (some of whom are still grumbling about stupid rich boys not knowing how to board a ship properly). It is unlikely that anyone other than Phillip’s colleagues, his friends, will have heard. That doesn’t make Phillip feel any less humiliated.

“Brilliant,” Phillip spits. “If that will be all...” he doesn’t wait to find out if it is or it isn’t.  He pushes past Barnum, who this time moves out of his way, and storms off to find his cabin. If anyone calls after him, they are drowned out by background noise. Phillip has no idea how he could have been laughing just moments before.

* * *

Phillip has a cabin to himself. Nearly everyone else is sharing with someone else but he had been very clear about that. It is worth the small fortune he paid extra. He does not have to put up with anyone barging into his room after that little scene up on deck. After only a few minutes, somebody knocks, but the door is locked and Phillip doesn’t open it. Barnum calls his name from the other side, but only a few times before giving up and retreating once more.

There is a small mirror in Phillip’s cabin. A brief assessment confirms that his cheek is a nasty combination of green and yellow but it’s really not so bad. It’s not bleeding. The bruise is unlikely to darken further than it already had. Nothing is broken. There is nothing to make such a fuss about.

The movement of the ship makes Phillip nauseous. He staggers, rather than walks, about his cabin as he unpacks. Eventually he decides to just sit and read for a while, but even keeping his eyes on the page makes him queasy. He just lies on his bed instead.

No one else tries to speak to Phillip until that evening, when Constantine nearly hammers his door down until he answers. He is not alone. He has brought Jeremy, Charles, W.D. and alcohol. The last is the only thing Phillip can truly say he is happy to see at that moment. He lets them come in, if only so that he can have access to the alcohol. He drinks copiously from the bottle as soon as it is offered to him.    

Charles looks around, impressed. “Who did you push overboard to get a room to yourself?”

“Nobody. I paid more than it cost for all four of you combined.” Phillip takes another deep swig from the bottle.

“Alright for some,” Charles grumbles, sprawling on the floor beside Phillip’s bed. “I’m sharing with W.D.” He turns towards the man in question. “You’d better not snore.”

W.D. flops down into the only chair. He’s not quite so graceful on the ground as he is in the air but some of that is undoubtedly the alcohol, and the motion of the sea. “I can assure you I am a perfectly quiet sleeper. It’s Lettie I feel sorry for. She has to put up with Anne’s sleep talking.”

At the mention of Anne, Phillip stops drinking. He does not know where to sit. The bed is already occupied by Constantine and Jeremy, sprawled out over the mattress. He remains standing, stiffly and formally, instead and passes the bottle over to Constantine’s outstretched hand. “Anne sleep talks?”

“Well it’s more like sleep mumbling. You can’t usually make out full sentences, though I have had a couple of good conversations with her while she was unconscious. She lets me talk more than she normally would.”

Jeremy is tucked in close to Constantine’s side, allowing the other man to wrap his arm around him. Constantine plays idly with Jeremy’s hair and neither seems to mind. Phillip has no idea how Jeremy can be so openly submissive. Does he not realise how wrong it is? Does he not care? Evidently not.

He sees Phillip staring and doesn’t move away, but takes the moment to say, “We thought you’d be sharing with Barnum.”

Something in Jeremy’s tone, in the way he lowers his eyelids as he asks as though there is a hidden question there, makes Phillip’s defences raise. He glares as he answers, “Why on earth would I be sharing with Barnum?”

“Oh, no reason,” Jeremy says a little too hastily. “Just because everyone else is sharing. But you’re not.”

“Thank goodness for that. Over two weeks sharing a cabin with Barnum? I might have actually had to throw him overboard.”

That amuses the others, at least, and soon the conversation shifts. After a while Phillip allows himself to perch, just as stiffly and formally as he had stood, on the edge of the bed. He lets the other men talk around him without much input. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy their company. He is unused to it. It means him employing the lessons he learnt at all the swanky parties he has ever attended on how to interact with people and join in their conversation. It doesn’t help Phillip settle that he is also waiting for the inevitable to be discussed. They skirt around the issue for longer than he expected. Nearly half an hour before Jeremy nudges Phillip with his foot and tells him to, “Smile, Carlyle.” Then he snorts with laughter. “Hey, that rhymed.”

“No it didn’t,” Phillip responds, shoving Jeremy’s foot away as it continues to poke at his side. “It’s a near rhyme at best.”

“Ooooh,” says Charles, high-pitched and teasing. “Listen to the playwright.” They’ve either had more to drink than Phillip has, or it affects them a lot quicker than it does Phillip. Perhaps he’s just had more practice.

Constantine and W.D. at least seem more sober. Phillip can feel W.D.’s gaze on him.

“It might not be a rhyme,” says Constantine, “but his point still stands. You’ve got a dark cloud over you at the best of times, but now I’d say it’s pretty much a downpour.”

“Now who’s getting poetic,” Phillip teases, hoping it sounds light enough to dodge the question, or to at least make Charles and Jeremy laugh again. It doesn’t work.

Constantine presses on. “I’m guessing, this is about what happened up on the deck. About...” He trails off and gestures to his own face to indicate what he means.  

Phillip stiffens and knows he’s given too much away.

From the chair in the corner, W.D. says, “You know, Barnum didn’t mean to humiliate you,” which makes Phillip turn and look at him.

“Well, he could have spoken a little quieter, then.”

“Everyone had already seen.”

“Everyone?” Phillip raises his eyebrows at W.D. “You weren’t even there.”

W.D. shrugs. “Rosie was there. And the girl talks.”

“She does little else,” Phillip mutters savagely. It might be a mean thing to say about Rosie, who has only ever tried to be friendly to Phillip, but he doesn’t feel like being kind. “So now everyone knows.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy seems to have sobered quickly. He’s sitting up a little more now. “Barnum came looking for you straight away afterwards.”

“I know. I didn’t answer.”

“Maybe you should have done. I think he wanted to talk about it with you.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about,” Jeremy assures him. “My father used to hit me too, you know.”

“Mine too,” says Constantine. “Until I got big enough to hit him back.”

“Mine probably would have done,” adds Charles. “If he hadn’t cleared off just after I was born.”

“Great,” snaps Phillip. “So it’s not a big issue. Which means we can stop discussing it.”

“If that’s what you want,” says W.D., calm and not rising to meet Phillip’s annoyance. “We’re just letting you know that we’re...here if you need us. If you want to talk...”

“I don’t.” Phillip folds his arms decisively. “So talk about something else, or leave.”

Nobody says anything. Phillip thinks that means they actually will leave. But Constantine settles back against the headboard, and then frowns. He leans behind himself, digging under the pillow and pulling out the book Phillip had been reading earlier.

“Carlyle,” he says, studying the cover with a mixture of amusement and disgust, “why are you reading Pride and Prejudice?”

The tips of Phillip’s ears turn pink. “Because I’ve never read it before.”

“Yeah and I’ve never worn a dress, doesn’t mean I’m about to.” Constantine flips the book open at random and grins at Phillip over the page. “Are you imagining yourself as a Mr Darcy or an Elizabeth Bennett?”

Phillip isn’t sure he likes whatever insinuation is there, no matter how unintentional. He has to remind himself that Constantine’s teasing is playful and that he does it to everyone. Phillip has seen him tease Jeremy and W.D. and even Barnum and it has nothing to do with Dominant or submissive. Now it’s just Phillip’s turn as the tattooed man clears his throat loudly and opens his mouth to begin reading.

He gets only a line in before Phillip makes a grab for the book. That turns it into a game and Phillip has to spend the next hour trying to get his book back while listening to Constantine read out the book in a simpering high voice. His mispronunciations rile Phillip as much as anything else.

Since joining the circus, Phillip has never felt quite so much a part of it as he does that night. It feels close to having friends, close to being accepted. Maybe getting them all to England has been an effective bribe. Or maybe it helps, them knowing that just because he is upper class doesn’t mean Phillip has the perfect life they might have imagined.

As he tries to sleep that night with the ocean causing the ship to lurch around him, Phillip has to remind himself that it does not really mean anything. They may be friendlier to him from now on, but that is because they do not truly know Phillip still. They only _think_ they understand.

Maybe it is the rocking of the ship, continuing to roil Phillip’s insides, which makes him think so negatively. It makes him think back to those awful, long ago sessions where he would vomit what felt like everything he had ever consumed, over and over again. The third time he wakes up with a yell on his lips and sickness in his stomach and lingering fingers which haven’t touched him in years still ghosting at his skin, Phillip knows for certain.

If W.D. or Constantine or any of the others saw him now, Phillip is sure they would be utterly disgusted at the freak in their midst.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me for this update!  
> I'll be starting university next week (eek!) So may be a little slow with the next update but it's in the works, I assure you!


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was again betaed by the amazing [Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus)  
> ! Any remaining issues are completely my fault. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with me, despite the delays that University bring!

It takes most people a few days to get used to the way the ocean moves, the rocking of the boat. Phillip spends three days shut inside his cabin. He is only actually sick a couple of times, which might have more to do with the alcohol he drank with W.D. and the others, but he feels so wretched the rest of the time that he has no desire to interact with anyone else. They don’t need to see him like this. 

That is not to say that he is left completely isolated during this time. Deng does not seem affected by seasickness in the slightest. She has travelled a lot and is now evidently desensitised to it. She knocks on Phillip’s door the first evening and presents him with a bowl of plain porridge.

“You need to keep eating,” she urges him. It’s not quite her usual, demanding tone. There is a new and unfamiliar softness to her words. Phillip has only ever really heard her talk like that to Rosie and he’s not sure he appreciates it used on him. Still, he takes the porridge and promises her that he will try to eat it.

When she’s left, Phillip attempts a few spoonfuls just to show willingness. It was odd to know that she had been thinking of him, enough to bring him food, to encourage him to take care of himself. If it was anyone other than Deng, Phillip would have said they were pitying him, because of his face, because of what they now knew. Phillip doesn’t think Deng has the capacity to feel that kind of patronising sympathy, and she is too practical-minded to be overly upset about one fairly small bruise.

There is another knock at Phillip’s door later that evening and he expects Deng again. He is startled and not particularly comforted to see Barnum standing there. The older man does not look quite so at ease as he did when Phillip last saw him. He is pale, and swaying nearly as much as the boat. Clearly this mode of travel does not agree with him any more than it does anyone else. He lingers just long enough to remind Phillip that his cabin is just down the corridor from Phillip’s, should he be needed at any time. He then waits in the doorway, as though there is something further he would like to say. His eyes flicker momentarily to Phillip’s cheek.

Hastily, Phillip reassures him that he will call on Barnum if the need arises. Barnum seems as grateful to get back to his cabin as Phillip is for the conversation to be over with.

The second day when Deng knocks on Phillip’s door, she is less sympathetic. She thrusts a bowl of porridge at him and this time an apple to accompany it, while saying, “It really is better for you up on deck. At least there is fresh air there.”

Phillip accepts the food gingerly. He hasn’t been sick since yesterday but he would like to keep it that way. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells Deng, more to get her to leave than because he actually will. Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and nibbles at the apple after she leaves and, once that’s settled without any issue, he eats most of the porridge too.

On the third day, Deng comes empty handed. She simply grabs Phillip’s arm and half steers, half drags him out of his room. “Come on, Carlyle. You’re joining us. Everyone else is up and about by now. Even Merryn, and she was acting as though she might die at any moment.”

Phillip has little choice in the matter. As he is pushed and shoved down the corridor he asks, because he has wondered for a while now, “Why don’t you like Merryn?”

Deng doesn’t falter in her urging Phillip forwards to answer. “I like her well enough. I have nothing against her. She is just very... childlike. She forgets sometimes that just because she is a submissive does not mean all Dominants will coddle her as her sister does.”

Phillip does not reply. He would never have put the words ‘submissive’ and ‘coddled’ together in the same sentence.

Deng steers him up on deck. The cool breeze slaps at Phillip’s face. It makes him feel more awake at the very least. The sun is bright, the sky clear and the ocean calm. Phillip takes in a few lungfuls of salty air and realises that Deng had been right. He does feel better up here than down in the cabin. Deng just nods at him as if to remind him that she had told him as much. She leads him round to an area of the deck set aside for the passengers to gather. There are seats and tables set up and as Phillip draws closer, he recognises two familiar laughs that set his stomach churning in a whole new way.

Most of the circus have gathered there and are watching Barnum and Anne. A deck of cards are spread on the table between them in a game Phillip doesn’t recognise.

“What did I miss?” Deng asks, releasing Phillip and slipping an arm around Rosie’s shoulders.

“Me about to quit!” declares Anne, throwing her hands up in the air, but too amused to be truly irate at her apparent defeat. “If we were playing for money I would have had to sell my clothing long ago.”

That leads to fresh peals of laughter all round. Charles jeers amiably. “And you’re going to disappoint us now? Look, Carlyle’s came out of his cabin just to see.”

Anne looks round and apparently only then notices that Phillip has joined the group. A faint blush rises quickly in her face. Just as quickly, she masks it with a smile and gracefully gets to her feet. “Good to have you back among the living, Mr Carlyle.” She looks back to the game spread out on the table. “You can take my place.”

Someone gently shoves Phillip in the back, urging him forwards. He stumbles a step or two but does not take the seat offered to him. He hesitates, eyes flickering from Anne, one hand still resting on the back to the chair, across the complicated spread of cards, to Barnum. The older man is leaning back in his own chair, one foot resting against the table leg. He grins when he meets Phillip’s gaze. There is a challenge in that smirk, a confident one; he is sure Phillip will not rise to it. Phillip sits down just for the novelty of proving Barnum wrong.

“I don’t know how to play,” he admits as Barnum gathers the cards back in and starts shuffling the deck. Barnum’s hands are quick and nimble in their movements. Phillip has a hard time looking away.

“Neither did I.” Anne still rests her hand on the back of the chair. Her fingers brush against Phillip but whether that is accidental or deliberate, Phillip cannot tell. She doesn’t move her hand away, at any rate. “I think you will find,” she adds, “that most of the rules seem to be made up by Barnum as he goes along.”

“How dare you!” Barnum clutches at his chest in a playful parody of offence. “Would I ever do something as untrustworthy as that?”

“Yes,” Phillip replies immediately. The troupe laughs around him.

“Well then,” says Barnum, dealing a handful of cards to Phillip and to himself. “I am sure you can trust Miss Wheeler to fill you in on the rules. If she is more honest than me, she can let you know if I decide to add in any new rules as we go.”

Phillip takes up his cards and resigns himself to be caught between Barnum’s teasing and Anne whispering in his ear for the rest of the afternoon. It is not such a very bad place to be caught.

The game transpires to be a version of poker, but from what Phillip can tell, the goal is to cheat as outrageously as possible. Or perhaps that is just how Barnum plays it. Perhaps he plays all games that way.

Without the running of the circus, the routine of work to be done, performances to be prepared, audiences to be attended to, Phillip had thought he would slip to the sidelines of the group, perhaps be excluded entirely. It was not something he felt bitter or hurt over. It was just how things were. He was an outsider to the group as it was. Without the familiarity of the circus, Phillip would stand out even more. It surprises him to realise he had been very wrong on that account. The members of the troupe actively seek Phillip out, rather than avoiding him.

Rosie continues much as she has always done, and talks to and at Phillip about anything. Phillip enjoys her company because he doesn’t need to think about how to respond. If anything he says by way of reply is off, then Rosie is too enthusiastic to comment upon it. Phillip takes to reading his book up on deck rather than in his cabin and is often joined by W.D., who also likes to read. Phillip had never noticed it about him before, but apparently he nearly always has a book backstage. When Phillip finishes his book a week into the journey and W.D. finishes his a day later, they swap and Phillip finds himself reading Frankenstein for the first time.

It’s during one of these shared reading sessions that W.D. tells Phillip that some of the performers get up early every morning to stretch and exercise, rehearse tricks for the show up on deck before the other passengers are there to get in the way. He invites Phillip to join them and Phillip does, but he feels foolish taking part. His exercises are much stiffer, self-conscious versions of what everyone else around him is doing. When Deng asks Phillip if he would like to join in with her sword practice, Phillip is frankly alarmed and quickly excuses himself to go and sit with Lettie instead, who is trying to hide her giggles by pretending to be engrossed in the knitting she is working on. Phillip just watches the troupe’s morning exercise after that.

Most evenings, Phillip finds himself playing cards with the rest of the troupe. They all get better at Barnum’s self-invented game and also take turns teaching each other new games. Constantine introduces them to one where an object is placed in the middle of the table. All the players quickly set down cards until a matching pair is placed. Then, everyone fights to grab the item and be the only person left holding it. Phillip doesn’t much care for taking part in that game but he does enjoy watching Charles nearly kill Barnum over it.  

Phillip struggles to sleep on the boat. Whereas the rocking motion might have soothed some, it disturbs Phillip, keeps him on edge. He does not like being in a bed which is not his own, in sheets which still smell of other people. He stays up much later than most of the others and rises earlier too. It is on one late evening, after everyone else has gone to bed, that Phillip finds himself alone with Barnum. For a change of pace, they’ve put the cards away and are attempting to play chess. Phillip has played with Georgette a few times but he’s fairly certain they don’t play by all the rules. Barnum isn’t familiar enough with the game to correct him if he is wrong. Either that or he just doesn’t care to fault Phillip.

Phillip plays with one of Barnum’s taken pieces. He turns the black knight over and over in his hands while he waits between turns.

“It’s your move, Barnum,” he prompts. Barnum has been staring at the board for a while now and Phillip isn’t sure if he’s planning his strategy or if he’s forgotten it’s his go.

“I know.” Barnum reaches out, touches his queen with one finger before retracting his hand again. “Do you know that you don’t always have to call me Barnum?”

“And what would you have me call you instead?”

Barnum’s mouth twitches. “Now there’s a question loaded with potential.” He settles on his queen again and moves it across the board. “Check. You could always start with Phineas, seeing as that’s my name. Or PT, if you’d rather.”

Phillip considers it for a while without response. He knows Barnum’s name of course, but it has never occurred to him to call him anything other than his surname. To do so would be informal and, Phillip had supposed, improper. Now here he is being offered the opportunity. He moves his king out of danger, lets Barnum take another turn. He takes a deep breath, runs his thumb over the edge of the black knight and then takes his own turn.

“Okay, PT,” he says as though it comes naturally to him, “Checkmate.”

Barnum (or Phineas, or PT, as Phillip is now permitted to call him) doesn’t seem exactly despondent about his defeat. His grin stays in Phillip’s mind all that night, when he is trying and failing to fall asleep. He mutters the names as though they are foreign words, practicing the way they feel upon his tongue.

“PT. Phineas. Phineas. PT.” It is those sounds, repeated and familiar despite their newness, which eventually sooth Phillip to sleep.

One night, Phillip lingers over dinner and when he joins the troupe they’re all huddled in a group around Deng, who is seated at a small table. All eyes are on her as she shuffles the cards.

“What game are we playing?” Phillip asks.

“We’re not,” Rosie replies in a hushed voice, “Deng’s going to tell our fortunes.”

Unease settles over Phillip without him knowing why. “I don’t believe in fortunes,” he says quickly.

Rosie nudges him. “Don’t be boring, Phillip. It’s only a bit of fun.”

Deng looks at both of them with a glare which tells them that she at least is taking this seriously. Her eyes scan over the assembled group. “Mr Barnum. Why don’t you go first?”

If Barnum – PT, Phillip has to keep reminding himself – feels uncomfortable with the prospect of having his future laid out in front of him, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he seems excited at the prospect. He settles himself into the chair opposite Deng and leans forward, like a child being presented with a new and coveted toy.

“I warn you,” says Deng, her voice serious and urgent. “You may not like what we see in the cards.”

Phillip shivers. But then Deng’s eyes flicker towards Rosie, so quickly that Phillip would have missed it if he hadn’t been paying such rapt attention. He turns to Rosie now. She is much worse at hiding amusement than Deng is. It reassures Phillip to know that this newly exposed mysticism is at least partially an act, just like anything else in the circus.

Perhaps Barnum knows it too, because he just shrugs. “I consider myself forewarned.”

“Very well.” Deng hands the deck of cards over to Barnum. “Hold the deck. If you have a particular issue in mind which you would like clarity on, think on it.”

Barnum does as instructed and then hands the cards back to Deng, who shuffles them once more, slower this time, with her eyes closed. She takes a deep breath before opening her eyes and quickly laying out three cards face up, overlapping.

It is not a deck of regular cards as Phillip had assumed. The pictures on these are intricate, small scenes or figures painted in beautiful colour. Phillip edges closer to the table to get a closer look. He’s not the only one. Everyone seems to be leaning in, keen to know what fate is planning for the ringmaster.

Deng studies the cards with a small frown. “Hmm. Interesting.”

“Well?” asks PT. “What does it say?” He urges Deng excitedly enough, but Phillip is sure there is now just the faintest hint of trepidation there too.

At last, Deng nods and declares, “It’s conflicting. But overall, I’d say this seems to be telling the fortunes of the circus. See here?” she touches the top most card. The image of a brilliant sun blazes in the picture. “This means good fortune and happiness. You’re succeeding, seeing your plans come to life. But...” Deng shifts the sun to one side to fully reveal the card beneath. The picture is of a tall building being struck by lightning. Fire licks at the stonework. A shiver runs down Phillip’s spine. “The Tower,” says Deng. She is no longer smiling. “It means danger that you are not seeing. It can mean ruin, if you are not careful...” She lingers with her fingers still on the card. Deng doesn’t really do hesitance, or uncertainty, but now she glances up at PT, then at the others. She looks at Rosie but there is no knowing humour to pass between them now.

Barnum breaks the moment by reaching forwards and daring to pat at Deng’s hands. “Well then, you needn’t worry.” He leans back in his chair, letting it rock onto just two legs. “I am always careful. When have I ever not been careful?”

That makes everyone laugh at least. Even Deng giggles. “Perhaps so.” She moves the tower to one side to reveal the final card. A woman kneels at the edge of a lake, pouring water into it, while stars shine above her. “The Star. She means hope. Good fortune after all. Perhaps coming from an unlikely place, so... it should all be alright. In the end.”

“Well.” PT positively beams. He lets the chair fall back onto four legs with a snap and gets up, looking very pleased with himself. “Now I know I’ve just got to watch my back, and everything will turn out for the best. Maybe it means the ship will go down but we’ll all just float to England.”

“Don’t make jokes like that,” Phillip says, wearily. He can’t stop thinking about the tower card, even as Deng shuffles it back into the deck.

“Maybe Deng read it wrong.” Everyone turns to look at Anne. Deng blinks at her, not used to being corrected but letting Anne go on. “Maybe The Star is where you are now. The Tower, the danger, that was everything that led up to now.”

Deng shrugs. “Maybe.” She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it pass. “Who’s next?”

And so, Deng works her way around the troupe. Not everyone takes a turn but most do. Phillip is sure there must be some trickery to it, or some creative interpretation to the way the cards fall. When Rosie takes her turn, for example, Deng draws the card of The Lovers, before shuffling the deck, only to draw it again, and a third time, until Phillip knows she must be forcing where it lands. It makes everyone laugh, still, and it makes Rosie blush and she’s prettier than normal when she blushes. But still there is something uncanny, unnerving about watching the lives of these people, friends, reflected and predicted in the placement of pretty pictures.

“Your turn, Carlyle.”

Phillip, who has not been paying full attention, is now startled to find himself being steered towards the table. He tries to bat off Constantine’s hands. “N-no. Not for me. Someone else can go instead.”

“Oh, come on,” urges Rosie, tugging at his sleeve. “Don’t be dull.” It’s a sentiment echoed around the table in various jeers and comments.

Phillip would still refuse, but then Barnum’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders. “Come along, Phillip. I did it. That means my apprentice has to as well.”

Phillip is guided and shoved into the chair. It’s all done in humour, Phineas’ fingers gentle enough to not truly be forcing him. But any further protestations are stalled in Phillip’s throat. He swallows to try and clear it.

Deng smiles at him from across the table. “It’s nothing to be scared of. I have not yet predicted the immediate death of any of my friends.”

“I’m not scared,” Phillip retorts automatically. He settles himself into the chair, deciding he might as well be comfortable for this.

“Good.” Deng offers the deck to Phillip and he takes it with only a little hesitation. “Is there a particular question you’d like answered?”

Phillip thinks about it for a moment. He has a million questions he would like answered, has had them ever since he joined the circus. He absolutely does not wish for any of them to be answered in front of an assembled group of friends and colleagues, so he just says, “Not really,” and hands the cards back to Deng, partly hoping she would let him go without having his fortune read at all.

“That’s fine,” she says instead. “We can just do your past, present and future in that case.”

So, Phillip sits there resigned, watching Deng’s long, delicate fingers as she shuffles the cards. Her fingernails are immaculate. Phillip folds his fingers under his hands where they rest on the table top, to hide his own bitten nails.

Deng deals out three cards face down in front of Phillip. She touches the card to Phillip’s left. “Past,” she says, touching the middle card. “Present.” She touches the middle card. “Future.” She taps the card on the right.

Phillip nods, not taking his eyes off of the cards. He is aware of everyone else shifting, drawing closer, just as they did when everyone else took a turn. That awful, nagging sense of foreboding is back again, chewing at Phillip’s insides. He can’t think of a way to excuse himself without causing a scene.

“Right,” says Deng, cheerfully. “Let’s get started.” She flips over the card indicating Phillip’s past.

Phillip’s gut twists further. It is as intricate as all the others Phillip has seen, but he does not like what is depicted at all. A shadowy, demonic creature looms large, clutching chains attached to two cowering figures.

“The Devil,” states Deng, telling Phillip what he already knows.

“That’s a horrible card,” Phillip mutters. He pushes it back across the table. “Pick another one.”

Deng won’t take it. “I can’t. You can’t just change your future... or in this case your past.” She shoves the card back into position in front of Phillip. “It’s not a particularly pleasant card, I agree. The Devil means entrapment. Living in fear.”

Another shiver creeps at Phillip’s spine and he forces himself rigidly still in order to combat it. He tries to school his face into an expression of complete neutrality, as though he doesn’t have the slightest clue what Deng might be talking about.

“It means a bad situation you’re struggling to escape from,” Deng continues and Phillip is seriously considering tipping the table over in order to make her stop. “In this case, I think it could be your family.”

Someone rests a hand on Phillip’s back and he jumps, looking round in something close to fright. Barnum is still standing close behind. He squeezes Phillip’s shoulder now, soothingly.

Phillip twitches out of his grip and turns back to Deng. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. I am not... entrapped by my family.”

“Of course not,” Deng says rapidly. “I just... I meant your situation, before joining the circus. A lifestyle you were clearly unhappy with, no way to escape it. Afraid to try.”

“That sounds about right,” says Barnum, amusement in his tone.

“I wasn’t afraid,” Phillip protests, but at least this is more comfortable territory, so he adds, “But perhaps you have a point.”

Deng moves on to the present card and flips that over too.

Phillip scoffs when the picture is revealed. “This is great.” He laughs, weakly. “First you give me The Devil, now Death.”

“Death isn’t a bad card,” Deng reminds him, repeating what she had said earlier when the card came up for Charles. “It just means change. A fresh start. Perhaps that’s what you need at the moment.” She moves on to the final card and flips that over too. A man is sat in a throne, staring straight ahead, straight out of the card at Phillip. Phillip risks a glance back to Deng, and is relieved to see that she looks pleased with this card at least. “There,” she says confidently. “The Emperor. He means control, confidence, power. He could be you. Or someone who is going to be very important to you. Either way, it looks like your future is going to be the exact opposite of your past.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Phillip mutters, slowly rising onto legs which he forces not to shake.

* * *

Days on the boat feel like a kind of limbo, a moment of held breath. Phillip can’t decide if he will be disappointed when they arrive, or if he can’t wait for the journey to be over. On the day they are scheduled to at last arrive in England, Phillip is up with the dawn. He dresses quickly to stave off the cold and then goes up onto the deck. Even the early morning exercisers aren’t up yet. Phillip walks a complete circuit of the ship twice, quickly so as to keep off the early morning chill, before he sees anyone other than the ship’s crew.

Lettie is leaning casually against the railings. One of the boat’s crewmen is stood close beside her and the pair appear to be conversing. Initial worry floods Phillip. He is unsure what this man wishes to say to Lettie, but he is sure it can be nothing pleasant. It is only as he draws near enough to see their faces that his tension eases somewhat. The man is not sneering at Lettie or harassing her. He has a playful, lopsided sort of grin, and he talks softly to her. There is a glint closer to mischief than malice in his eyes and it is one matched by Lettie, apparently perfectly at ease with the situation.

Phillip’s brisk pace slows to a stumbling halt. He doesn’t want to disturb the scene in front of him. He should just back away, or at least, pretend to see something very interesting over the side of the boat, anything other than just continuing to stare at Lettie in what is quite clearly a personal moment. But, just as Phillip once watched Phineas and his wife interacting with Merryn, Phillip finds himself unable to look away. He may as well be watching Merryn all over again.

Lettie lowers her eyelids when she speaks to the crewman. She speaks gently, laughs softer than normal. It is flirting, but more than that. It is submission. Not out of fear, as far as Phillip can tell, but out of choice, out of habit or physiology or whatever it is that makes some people submissives and other people Dominants. Out of whatever cheated Phillip before he was even born. Phillip suddenly finds that he has to clutch at the railing and maybe he makes some involuntary noise, because Lettie and the man she is so happily conversing with both startle and turn in his direction.

“Phillip!” Lettie’s voice is ever so slightly higher in surprise than normal. She steps away from the crewman, back to a safer, more respectable distance and rearranges her dress, pulling her shawl a little tighter around herself, even though there is nothing at all indecent about her. She and her companion hadn’t even so much as brushed shoulders with one another, as far as Phillip saw. Phillip raises a hand in what he knows is the most awkward greeting imaginable.  He waits for the man to leave before approaching Lettie. The crewman does so quickly, eager now to return to his work. He hastily bids Lettie goodbye, nods in greeting to Phillip and then hurries away. He does at least look a little embarrassed to have been caught flirting instead of working. Phillip is embarrassed. He doesn’t know where to look now, or what to do.

“Phillip,” says Lettie again, walking towards Phillip. Her cheeks are tinged pink above her beard. “You’re up early!”

“So are you.”

Lettie blinks at him, the colour in her cheeks darkening. Phillip winces internally at his own snappish defence. But he’s still so shocked he can’t think how to move on from it. “Do you know him?” he asks instead, nodding in the direction the crewman just went.

“What? Oh, no. Well, we’ve talked a few times on the ship.”

“Was he bothering you?” Phillip half hopes the answer will be yes. Lettie acting submissive to get out of a situation she is uncomfortable with, is somehow a better prospect to Phillip than the alternative. But Lettie shakes her head fervently.

“No, no. He was... perfectly pleasant, actually.” She sounds startled at the prospect. “He was saying he wants to come and see the show, when we’re back in New York. He wants to hear me sing.”

“Oh...”

“He won’t,” Lettie adds quickly. She shrugs, offhand about the matter. “He’s just saying that because we’re at sea, hundreds of miles away from home. He’ll have a wife and a family back in America.” She doesn’t seem particularly saddened at that thought. She turns to lean against the railings, watching the horizon. “They always do.”

Phillip wants to say something comforting or consoling. He wants to say that if that is the case, then that man isn’t worth bothering with in the first place. Instead, what comes out is, “You’re a sub,” like an accusation. Like he might have just informed Lettie she is a criminal.

Lettie’s blush fades rapidly. She straightens her shoulders and turns to glare at Phillip. “Yes,” she says rather coldly. “I am. I can’t see how that makes any impact on anyone else.”

“No!” Phillip’s heart clamours in his chest. God can he just stop and think before speaking? “I just... I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“Why? Isn’t that what we’re always told? That men are Dominants, that women are submissives?”

It is exactly what Phillip has had drilled into him for years. He’d thought Lettie broke that mould. Finding out that she is not, that she is just like everyone else in this regard, is like a slap, a punch. It’s a betrayal and she doesn’t even know she has committed it.

“I... I’m sorry,” he says eventually with a sigh. He truly is sorry. He wants to apologise more but he feels, hatefully, like he might be about to cry, or vomit.

“Submissive is not a dirty word, Mr Carlyle.”

It has been just about the filthiest word that could be spoken in the Carlyle household for decades. But Phillip can’t say that to Lettie. Instead he just croaks out, “I know. But I just assumed... you seem so... confident.”

Lettie laughs out loud. “You don’t know me well at all, Carlyle. I’m not... not confident, not at all.” She shakes her head and relaxes slightly against the railings. At least she doesn’t look quite so hurt, just incredulous. “What you see on stage, that’s just an act. Maybe I’ve gotten better at carrying it offstage with me at the end of the show, but that’s still all it is. It’s just a trick. Like the stilts for Vasily.” She laughs again but with decidedly less humour. “Look at me, Carlyle. How could I ever be Dominant? I’d spent my whole life hiding, before Barnum found me.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide,” Phillip says vehemently.

“Even though I’m submissive? On top of everything else?” Lettie looks pained, as though she already knows the answer.

“Of course not.” Phillip wants to reach out to Lettie. He goes to hold her hand but thinks better of it at the last moment and grips the railing instead. “I’m sorry if what I said made you feel I think less of you. I was surprised, that’s all. I shouldn’t have been. Being submissive doesn’t make you any less worthy.” Phillip takes a deep breath to settle himself. He’s not sure if he just lied to Lettie, or if he just spoke the truth for the first time in years. “I like who you are. Nothing else should matter.”

Lettie seems startled by his sudden earnestness all the same. If there is any uncertainty in his tone, she doesn’t hear it. “Thank you, Mr Carlyle,” she says, hesitantly. Then she smiles, closer to the true Lettie smile that Phillip has known since he joined the circus. “But if this is you propositioning me, you might just be half an hour too late.”

“No!” Phillip yelps, staggering back a few steps from Lettie. “No! I didn’t mean... I mean you... I don’t...”

“Relax, Carlyle. You’re fine. I just wanted to see that look of panic on your face.” She pats his arm lightly as she walks past him. “I think I’ll see if the others are up yet.”

Phillip is still reeling and unable to formulate the words he wants to say, needs to say. When sense eventually returns to him, he has to go chasing after Lettie across the deck and inside the ship to catch up to her. “Lettie!”

She turns, looks at him questioningly.

“I’m sorry, again. Really sorry. And I’m sorry that I don’t know you as well as I maybe should.”

Lettie just shrugs, still smiling. “Maybe you can get to know me better while we’re in England.”

Phillip watches Lettie closely for the rest of the morning. What has he missed? There are always signs that mark someone out as a sub, and Phillip has evidently missed them all in Lettie. There is nothing in the way she walks, the way she greets the others when they start to join them for breakfast. Phillip watches her talk, watches her eat, listens to her voice and her laugh. Still, he cannot spot anything.

Eventually Phillip has had enough and excuses himself from the rest of the troupe. He retreats to his cabin once more on the pretence of needing to check that he has packed all of his belongings. He finished packing last night. He sits on the edge of the bed which he has loathed for every night he has spent on this ship, but now he finds he would like to do nothing more than curl up on it and never rise again. At some point, the edge of Phillip’s right index finger works its way into his mouth. The flesh there is already bitten. If he’s not careful, Phillip thinks dryly, he’ll have no skin left on his hand by the time they arrive in England.

* * *

England does not make the best first impression upon Phillip, or the rest of the troupe. It’s raining heavily when they come into dock and within minutes, they’re all so wet they may as well have swam there. The transport Phillip had arranged in advance isn’t waiting for them when they first arrive and they all stand around on the docks, unsure of what to do next. A lot of people are staring, whispering. Phillip hears the word ‘circus’ a few times. News that they will be visiting the queen must have already reached the crowds of London. Some people even refer to Barnum by name, which will no doubt inflate the man’s self importance even higher than normal.

Just as he is aware of the strangers staring, Phillip is acutely aware of the rest of the troupe looking at him, waiting for him to make a decision. Even Barnum looks unsure of himself on, quite literally, foreign territory.

“Phillip?” he asks after a while of waiting. His hair is dripping water into his eyes. He’s given his coat to Anne and his white shirt is turning see through. The overall effect should be quite comical. At the moment, Phillip just feels rather wretched about the whole matter and can’t see the humour in it. Anne huddles beneath Barnum’s coat with Rosie. It’s big enough to wrap around the both of them if they stand close and they look like a pair of dejected orphans as they try to cram themselves into a doorway to shelter from the worst of the rain.

“The carriages will be here soon,” Phillip says more confidently than he feels. “They must be held up... maybe it’s the weather.” Phillip doesn’t like the idea of wandering lost through strange streets with the circus trailing behind him. That would not create the kind of impression anyone is hoping to make here.

Sure enough, after several more minutes of wet and dejected waiting, the carriages Phillip had arranged arrive at the docks and they all pile in. Everyone is too cold and tired to talk as they travel, which suits Phillip just fine.

A great deal more people stare when they alight outside of the hotel and hurry inside through the continued downpour. The hotel is probably not used to this calibre of customer, Phillip muses. He supposes the troupe make quite a spectacle even when they’re not drenched to the skin. Fedor is an especially bizarre sight with his mass of hair plastered flat to his skin. A group of women in delicate white dresses and lace gloves are standing in the hotel foyer. They point and exclaim indiscreetly behind their hands. Fedor waits until he is level with them and then shakes his head quickly, showering them in droplets of water and making them shriek, which lightens everyone else’s spirits somewhat.

* * *

Their meeting with the queen goes almost entirely without a hitch. Phillip had wanted to expire on the spot when Charles made his joke, but it turned out the queen of England had a far better sense of humour than people gave her credit for. She loved the whole circus and found Charles quite amusing, or fascinating, or both. It was an opinion shared by many of the other ladies there. The last time Phillip had seen Charles, the younger man had been surrounded by a small flock of women, all of them giggling and one of them asking to try on his general’s hat.

As Phillip stares out of the window at the palace gardens beyond, he decides that England in the sunlight is much more beautiful than he had believed it to be in the rain. Even in the winter time, the gardens are pristinely maintained. Phillip would like to go outside, to walk through those gardens. It would be far easier than the party he is attending instead.

“Hey, Carlyle.”

Phillip turns quickly, but can’t see anyone calling him.

“Carlyle!”

Phillip recognises Charles’ voice now, but where he is calling from Phillip still doesn’t know. His voice seems to be coming from a table to Phillip’s right and as he leans across it to see if Charles is out of sight on the other side of it, a small hand touches Phillip’s leg. He thinks he does a good job not to kick the table in shock.

“Don’t make it obvious,” Charles hisses from under the table. “Move round to the back of the table where people can’t see.”

Phillip does as instructed, leaning casually against the wall, and then watches as the very edge of the tablecloth is lifted to reveal Charles and, even more surprisingly, Rosie. Her extra bendy joints make it easy for her to fit in the small space alongside Charles.

“What,” Phillip asks wearily, “are you two doing down there?”

“Hiding,” says Rosie with a giggle.

“I can see that.” Phillip takes a long sip of champagne from the glass he is holding. “Any reason why?”

“It’s all these women,” Charles exclaims in an undertone. “They’re relentless. Do you see what they’ve done to me?” He indicates his face and Phillip glances at him without trying to make the movement noticeable. Dozens of pink lipstick marks adorn Charles’ face.

Phillip snorts with undignified laughter which he tries to conceal by pretending to admire a painting on the wall. “That must be quite a problem for you.”

“It’s exhausting. I just need a break. You couldn’t grab us some champagne could you?”

Phillip sighs but dutifully plucks two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter. The man raises his eyebrows. He must have served Phillip half a dozen times already. Phillip stares back at him, waiting for him to say something. Being only a servant though, he doesn’t dare and looks swiftly away under Phillip’s glare. Good, Phillip thinks, he should know his place better.

A vicious wave of self-hatred floods Phillip at that thought. That is something his father would say. Phillip will not think the same. If the waiter thinks Phillip is a drunk, then he can think that all he wants. It may even be true. Phillip retreats to the table feeling disgusted at himself and waits until no one is around before passing the glasses down to Rosie and Charles.

“Don’t drink too much more, okay?” he warns as he does so, aware of the irony of him scolding someone else for this. “Remember we have to perform tonight.”

“ _ We  _ have to perform,” Charles corrects him. “You just sit around and look pretty.” He downs half the glass in one go. “Don’t worry yourself, I know my limits.” Rosie says nothing at all, but she is already a little pink in the face.

Phillip lets the tablecloth fall back into place and leaves them to it. If they haven’t sobered up by tonight, then at least it’s not Rosie who throws the knives. Phillip glances around to check on the others.

Lettie is talking to one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and seems as surprised as anyone else to find herself there. Deng is apparently discussing weaponry with several very official-looking men in uniform. It is a rather one-sided conversation. The men apparently find Deng interesting, but not to be trusted as a source of knowledge on the matter. Deng’s hands keep twitching at her sides. 

Other than that, there isn’t much mingling going on. The others are mostly standing in their own little group, acting more like a mildly amusing art display than invited guests. Most of them are used to people looking at them with interest or even disgust wherever they go, but Anne seems particularly uncomfortable. People stare at her all the time when she is flying through the air. It is a different matter when she is firmly on the ground, when she is doing nothing more than simply existing. She keeps tugging the short purple cape she is wearing, pulling it more tightly about her shoulders. It offers little more modesty than her costume beneath it.   

Phillip keeps watching her too. Is he any better than the rest of the aristocratic men and women who fill the room? He sips another glass of champagne to try and dispel that thought and nearly misses Jenny Lind’s arrival altogether. It’s only Barnum who drags him back and Phillip dutifully informs him who the woman is, mostly because he is surprised Barnum doesn’t already know.  It’s Jenny Lind. Everyone knows who she is. Everyone in the circles Phillip mixes with, anyway.

“Come on.” Barnum places his hand on Phillip’s back, the once alarming gesture now almost familiar, and begins steering him across the room towards Miss Lind. Phillip is perfectly horrified at the prospect. He stammers protests only to be met with Barnum’s offhanded rebuttals.

“Come on,” Barnum insists again. They’re now close enough that Miss Lind might be able to hear them once she finishes her current conversation. Barnum is apparently oblivious to this. “Now, do we think she’s a Dom or a sub?”

“What?” Phillip tries to duck away from Barnum once more. “How should I know? What does it matter anyway?”

“It might help. Use a little natural charm to our advantage. If she’s a sub, I’ll just talk to her and-”

Phillip rolls his eyes and cuts Barnum off before he can elaborate. “And if she’s a Dom?”

“If she’s a Dom then...” Phineas’ eyes flicker to Phillip once more. Phillip glares at him, daring him to finish whatever thought he may be having. But Phineas carries on, barely missing a beat. Phillip could almost be convinced he imagined that pause. “If she is a Dom, then we’ll see if someone in the troupe will bat their eyes at her. Charm her over. Jeremy might do it. Or Lettie, if Miss Lind is that way inclined...” 

Any other time, Phillip would have found this level of Barnum arrogance amusing. Right now, Phillip is just disbelieving and concerned to find himself being dragged into whatever scheme the other man is planning. But then Jenny Lind turns to face them and Phillip has to, however haltingly and against his better judgement, introduce them to each other.

It turns out that the queen was not the most significant person they would meet that day.

* * *

Watching Phineas and Miss Lind interact is like watching a dance. Phillip decides that throughout the course of that afternoon at the palace. The way they move around the room and the other guests, each always aware of the presence of the other. It’s even in how they talk, a back and forth, neither giving over too much power but not expecting to take it easily either. Phineas may have, at long last, met someone who matches him in his confidence and ability to sway a room. (Although Phillip still can’t say for certain if Jenny Lind is the most obviously Dominant woman he has encountered, or a submissive who knows how to play Doms at their own game. She does it all so much more subtly, more delicately than any Dominant Phillip has ever known, and yet with a knife-sharp precision behind her every movement.) Watching the two interact is almost like watching a courtship. If Phillip did not know Phineas was so loyal to Charity, he would have assumed it was.  It is a seduction of sorts, just not of the usual kind.

Phineas asks Miss Lind if she will be staying to watch their performance that evening. At first she declines, but asks a little more about their show with the same sceptical interest she has so far consistently used in her every interaction with him. Then the queen herself asks Miss Lind to stay and she can’t exactly say no to that. Maybe she never had any intention of missing the show.

It is not as sensational a display as they would be able to produce back home. A lot of the big aerial acts have to be cut without the proper rigging there to support them. Some of the group, so used to performing in front of crowds three times the size of the small group of assembled guests, are still nervous to perform in front of the queen. Everyone else tries to make up for it with added flair where they can. With nothing to compare it to, the queen and her guests are suitably amazed by the whole experience. One lady actually faints during Deng and Rosie’s act, but that might be because one of the knives goes too wide and embeds itself in the expensive oak panelling of the grand hall they’re performing in. The queen doesn’t even seem to notice. She is perched on the edge of her seat watching the girls perform, particularly enthralled by their segment of the show. She squeals like a little girl, clutches her chest as the tricks get riskier, and then applauds louder than anyone else as they take their bow.

Barnum himself seems unaware of any change to the show. If he thinks the absence of people flying through the air or plummeting to earth makes the show less wonderful, he doesn’t show it in the slightest. His only adaptation is to focus his usual ringmaster spiel nearly completely upon the queen. (That had been at Phillip’s insistence. Phineas hadn’t seen the point, declaring, “But there is a whole room of people to be entertained, Phillip.” “Only one of them matters,” Phillip had insisted. “Perform to her and her alone.”)

While PT Barnum cannot reign in his focus from the rest of the rapt crowd entirely, he does manage to keep bringing his attention back to the queen. Phillip does not miss, however, the way Phineas’s gaze doesn’t fail to find Jenny Lind among the guests. Perhaps, Phillip muses bitterly to himself, he should have specified exactly which woman he was referring to when he had said there was only one who mattered in the room that night. 

 


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be up before Christmas but... time got away from me yet again! 
> 
> As always thank you to my amazing beta, [Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus)  
> . 
> 
> I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and looking forward to a fabulous 2019!

They have a month in London after their visit to the queen. It is a month in which they are in high demand; a meeting with the queen leads to other meetings, other invitations. There are parties people want Phineas, and Phillip, to attend. The rest of the troupe is largely left off of the guest list but, for the most part, they are happy about this. For most of them, the palace had been uncomfortable but tolerable. They had been treated as guests, albeit very unusual ones. At the engagements Phillip attends without them, he is sure they would not be treated so generously and they seem aware of this. They are far from stupid, after all. Phillip hates it especially when people ask about the troupe at these events. It is with a ghoulish curiosity and, because the whole purpose of this is to promote the show, Phillip has to give their hosts the details they desire. He feels more like a traitor each time. Sometimes people comment that they are disappointed that Barnum did not ‘bring the rest of the troupe along’, as though they are objects, or animals to be shepherded wherever their master wishes. No party where alcohol is so readily available has left Phillip feeling as empty as those evenings do.

Barnum is either a better actor than Phillip gives him credit for, or he is truly oblivious to any unpleasantness in these situations. He acts just the same as he always does, both with the troupe and with the rich snobs they spend their evenings with. (And if Phillip thought too much about it, it would be shocking that he classes these people as ‘rich snobs’ when not very long ago at all, he was one of them.)

The rest of the troupe treat their remaining time in England as something of a holiday, which is an experience most of them have not had before. Every day they go out to explore the city. Phillip and PT join the troupe on their excursions when they can. Phillip had not anticipated London being so very different from New York, but now he continues to discover the many ways in which they are nothing alike. Whereas New York is full of vacant land and new building projects, constant attempts to modernise, London is packed so closely together it feels almost claustrophobic, houses pressed together, buildings which have stood for hundreds of years. Phillip cannot say it is a city he would like to stay in for any length of time. It is the company he is with which makes it more tolerable.

The most open space Phillip sees here is when they take a trip out of the city, to Highgate. It is only when they arrive there that they realise there has been a misunderstanding. It is not a park, as they had believed, but a cemetery masquerading as one. Gravestones nestle among trees. People walk past the mausoleums like they might walk past fountains, or pretty statues. Still, it is the most fresh air Phillip has had in weeks; the healthiest place for the living of London may be among the dead. The troupe remain, for a while, and wander among the graves. Despite the macabre surroundings, there is something peaceful there too. From their vantage point on the hill, London’s skyline stretches beneath them.

London is full of numerous, apparently famous, markets and Phillip spends a day visiting some of them with the female members of the troupe. PT and Charles and most of the other men are planning on spending the day in an equally apparently famous gambling house. Phillip surprises himself by declining their invitation. He knows it is where he should go. It is a place for men, for Dominants. It is for that exact reason that Phillip would rather spend his day elsewhere.

The markets they visit are not places Phillip would have ever gone to back home. He wouldn’t have the need and, more importantly, they are far too common a place for someone of his class to frequent. That is what his parents would have thought, at any rate. But, hundreds of miles away from his parents, there is no one to see, no one to judge. Phillip quite enjoys the afternoon he spends with the girls, looking at objects so cheap he could have filled his apartment with them, and just cheap enough for the girls to indulge themselves. Phillip doesn’t point out the thin layer of grime, a permanent fixture here in London, which coats the bracelet Lettie admires, or the flaws in the broach Anne buys. He offers to pay for the broach himself and gets glared at from all angles.

Phillip does buy each of the girls a flower. They each wear them in their hair for the rest of the day, even Deng Yan, who is wordless for several minutes when Phillip presents her with a flower too.

Another day, they visit the richer areas of town so that Phillip can make good on his promise to buy dresses for Caroline and Helen. The troupe get stared at more frequently, glared at with increasing regularity and hostility. Phillip himself, who had thought he would feel more at home here, feels nothing of the sort.

In the first shop they stop at, the assistant welcomes Phillip and Rosie warmly enough but then moves quickly to block the door as Anne and Lettie and Deng try to follow. He explains in ice-filled tones that this shop is not for people of their nature. Rosie has enough sense to get between Deng and the assistant. Phillip leaves that shop with the girls, despite the assistant trying to persuade him to stay.

The troupe lingers outside the next shop. They can at least pretend they would have been accepted inside, and Charles and Constantine make faces at Phillip through the window while he selects the two finest dresses in the store. The shop owner looks nothing short of relieved when they all leave but says nothing.

* * *

On the whole, Phillip is not a massive fan of London Zoo.

It was PT who insisted on visiting. He had heard a lot about a bull elephant by the name of Jumbo and has insane plans to bring him to America to be part of the circus. Phillip thought someone had better go with PT to talk some sense into him, then the others heard of it and it had rapidly turned into their last group outing before returning to America.

As Phillip trails from exhibit to exhibit, he decides he is not a fan of zoos at all. Not a fan of cages. The animals at the circus get to come out of their enclosures, at least. Their trainers take care of them. Phillip gets the distinct impression that is not the case here. He starts to wonder if poor Jumbo might be better off in America. PT seems very taken with him. Phillip watches as the ringmaster pays several times the amount the elephant’s keepers are charging for a ride on the huge creature, and then refuses to get on the animal at all. He just uses his time to stand close to him, to rest one hand against his massive leg, and to talk to the keepers. Jumbo seems glad of the rest, anyway, and Phillip knows how that feels.  

If Phillip stares too long at the animals in their cages, he almost starts to think that the bars are the other way around. That it’s he who is trapped inside, with a tiger, or a lion, or a monkey looking in at him for fun.

At least everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves. Phillip thinks this to himself as he walks over to look at the polar bears. No one else seems bothered by the cages the way he is. Everyone seems to be in high spirits as they either enjoy one of the last days of their trip or look forward to going back home, or both. PT is back with the elephants again. Nearby, Fedor is making loud whooping noises at the monkeys, which they imitate back, shrieking and jumping up and down at the bars. Deng is laughing so hard at it that she’s struggling to breathe.

One of the bears trots over, possibly to see what all the noise is about. He paces the edge of the enclosure a couple of times, agitated, before deciding it is either nothing to concern himself with, or nothing he can control. He flops down not far from where Phillip is standing, and proceeds to rest his great head on his paws. Phillip shifts over a few steps closer. The bear turns to look at him. Dark eyes blink at Phillip from out of matted, off-white fur.

Phillip is struck with the sudden and alarming urge to climb down into the bear pit. He’d find the door and set the poor beast free. He’d convince PT that a polar bear is much more suited to the circus than another elephant. Perhaps he could put together some kind of act involving the bear...

 It is utterly ridiculous. He knows the bear would maim him much quicker than it would be grateful for its freedom. Phillip’s mind really is playing tricks on him today. Also, the days of walking around London are mounting up and the soles of Phillip’s feet are nothing short of killing him. He tries standing on one foot at a time, shifting his weight from leg to leg, to see if that helps at all. The bear’s eyes flicker, watching his movements.

“Are you alright?” asks a soft voice at Phillip’s side. Startled and a little embarrassed to be caught in a staring contest with a bear, Phillip turns to face Lettie. It is hard to tell it is her due to the number of scarves she has wrapped around the lower half of her face. They are partly to shield her from the cold weather that seems to have permeated England throughout their visit, and partly because far fewer people stare at her this way. She has mastered the knack of tying the scarves so that they stay perfectly in place; she must have had years of practice. Above the silk and wool, her eyes are frowning at Phillip.

“I’m fine,” Phillip tries to reassure her with a smile. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” she moves closer to him, “either you are practicing an impression of the flamingos we saw earlier... or your feet are hurting you again.”

“I’m fine,” Phillip repeats quickly, resting both feet firmly back on the ground. He hopes he manages to mask both his wince and the way his face is colouring steadily. He could do with one of Lettie’s scarves to hide behind.

Lettie just shuffles a little closer to him. They stand for a while looking at the bear, not dissimilar to how they had stood together at the edge of the ship not long ago. As they look on, the bear stretches his head upwards into the fine drizzle that has been falling all morning.  

“At least he’s enjoying the cold,” Phillip comments quietly.

Lettie makes a soft ‘mm’ of approval, then adds, “It’s kind of sad here, isn’t it? All these animals locked away, just for the entertainment of people who can pay enough to look at them...” she pulls her coat a little tighter around herself. “It just seems wrong.”

Phillip, who had believed he was the only one to think so, can only murmur vague agreement.

“Come on,” says Lettie, abruptly. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Phillip turns with her and follows her away from the bears. He’s shuffling his feet to avoid limping just a little.

“I don’t know. Somewhere warm. Somewhere you can sit down.”

“I don’t need to sit down,” Phillip assures her, trying to sound a lot brighter than he feels. There is no need for him to act like an invalid. “There’s no need to worry about me, Lettie.”

“I’m not,” Lettie says, breezily. “But even if you don’t want to sit down, I do. I think I saw a cafe on our way here...”

“What about the others?” Phillip looks around. A small group of the performers are knotted around the monkey’s cage. There’s a lot of laughter still going on and Phillip doesn’t want to be the one to disturb that.

“We can go,” says Lettie. “Just the two of us.”

“Shouldn’t we tell them at least?” Phillip has to walk a lot quicker than he would like in order to keep up with Lettie’s suddenly purposeful strides.

She stops at his words, shrugs, and turns back to the others. “Hey!” No one responds. She tries again, a little louder this time. “Hey! WD! Constantine!” Still no one hears her. Finally, Lettie reaches one hand beneath her arrangement of scarves and whistles, loud and piercing.

That gets the attention of every member of the troupe in sight, and every other member of the public, and a good deal of the animals too. The monkey sets off shrieking again. The polar bear jumps up in sudden alarm.

“What?” Constantine calls back. A lot of people are turning to look now. Phillip wishes they wouldn’t. Causing a scene isn’t something that sits well with him, outside the safe confines of the circus.

“Me and Carlyle are leaving,” Lettie calls with none of Phillip’s hesitation. “We’re going to find a cafe.”

“All right,” Constantine replies, with a ‘suit yourself’ shrug of his shoulders. “We’ll see you back at the hotel.”

Before Lettie and Phillip can leave however, there’s fast running footsteps and another shout. “Wait!” They both turn again to see Anne hurrying over, WD slouching behind her. “I’ll come with you.”

Phillip’s chest constricts. He hadn’t counted on this.

WD clearly hadn’t either. He makes a movement forwards as though he might be about to say he is joining them too, but Anne waves him off.

“No,” she insists. “You stay here. You were just saying you wanted to see the tigers.”

WD glares at Anne and then catches her arm to pull her closer. A hasty, whispered conversation takes place between the siblings in which Anne continues smiling and shaking her head airily and WD keeps muttering and shifting his weight uneasily. Phillip is sure he is not imagining the way they keep glancing at him while they talk. Whatever is being discussed, Anne finishes it by firmly pulling away from her brother. “Stay,” she says firmly, in a tone loud enough for Lettie and Phillip to hear. “Besides, someone needs to stop Barnum from buying a whole herd of elephants without Carlyle here to talk some sense into him.”

WD twitches, as though he would still like to follow his sister, but Phillip is the only one who sees it. Anne has already linked arms with Lettie, and is walking away. Phillip gives WD what he hopes is his most comforting, least threatening smile, and walks after them. Whatever trepidations WD may have, he doesn’t follow.

* * *

They settle on a chocolate shop a few streets back from the main road. It is not the most extravagant or classy establishment Phillip has ever frequented, but it is warm and cosy and, more importantly, they have no issue with serving Anne. The trio tuck themselves in a little nook near the fireplace, where their clothes can dry, and the chill in their bones starts to thaw a little. When the waitress brings over the three steaming mugs of melted chocolate that Phillip paid for, he thinks it smells more delicious thing than anything he has been served at a high society function, either in England or America. He settles back in his chair with a soft sigh, blowing cool air over the surface of his drink.

“Why do your feet hurt all the time?” asks Anne. Phillip’s fingers tighten a little on the mug. Now that the waitress is gone, Lettie is untangling herself from her scarves, but both girls are watching Phillip curiously.

“They don’t hurt all the time,” Phillip answers truthfully and cautiously.

“Just some of the time?” Anne picks up her own mug and copies Phillip, breathing on it to cool it. Phillip can see the little ripples her exhales make in the dark liquid.

“Yes. Some of the time,” he concedes.

“Why?” Lettie presses.

To give himself a moment to think, Phillip takes an experimental sip of chocolate. It is still far too hot, really, and scalds his lip a little. It tastes divine though. “I ran through broken glass when I was a child,” he lies calmly, following it up with a truth. “I have scars on the soles of my feet. Sometimes they ache when I’ve been standing for too long.”

Lettie and Anne exchange glances. Phillip thinks they might be about to question his story and he can feel himself growing rigid in anticipation of it. Instead, all Lettie does is ask, “But it doesn’t affect you at the circus?”

“No,” says Phillip, firmly. “Even when it does hurt I can keep going. You don’t need to worry about how my work will be affected.”

“I’m not!” says Lettie. “I was just...you can rest more often if you need to is all I was going to say.”

Phillip counts to five inside his head. He can hear a voice uncomfortably like his father’s respond to Lettie’s words as ‘weak’ and ‘lazy’. “I don’t need to rest,” Phillip says aloud to drown it out. “It is something I have dealt with for a long time and I know my limits. I have yet to reach them in the circus. Thank you, though, for your concern.” More than a little uncomfortable with this subject, Phillip quickly changes it. He looks at Anne. "What did you say to your brother, for him to let you come here with me?"

"Let me?"  Anne raises her eyebrows. She tucks her feet up underneath her, curling in a manner not completely suitable for a lady in public. It might be more suited to an animal only vaguely tamed. "My brother doesn't 'let' me do anything. He's not my keeper." She doesn't sound particularly irritated. She's smirking, amused, more than anything.

"I didn't mean that," Phillip corrects himself nonetheless. "I just meant... he didn’t seem keen on the idea of you coming away with me."

"He wasn't. But then I reminded him that he doesn’t get to make those decisions for me."

Phillip remembers WD saying something similar before. Perhaps it is a discussion they regularly have.

"I also pointed out that there was very little even the most depraved man would attempt to do to me in the middle of a busy cafe, and with Lettie for company."

Lettie grins at this. "Too right, too. I can be very scary when I want." She and Anne both giggle at that. Phillip just takes another experimental sip of chocolate.

"Absolutely terrifying," Phillip agrees with faux seriousness, joining in their joke. He nods at Anne again. "Your brother scares me a bit," he admits. He hopes he makes it sound like a friendly observation rather than an accusation.

Anne laughs more until she realises Phillip wasn't joking. "Really?" she asks, incredulous. "WD?" Phillip nods. Anne splutters but then tries to sober her expression. "I'm sorry. It's just... that seems a bit unlikely to me."

"Does it?" Phillip doesn’t think it seems that farfetched at all.

"WD's a big softie," Lettie says, offhandedly. "He puts on a lot of show to protect his sister, but that's all it is, just show. You just need to look a little deeper."

Anne nods, looking at them both sagely over the brim of her cup. She takes a deep sip and Phillip watches the movement of her swallowing. "I keep telling him that he doesn't need to bother around the circus but... some habits are hard to break I suppose."

"I worry that it tires him," adds Lettie. "Performing on stage is one thing but... I can't imagine how exhausting it must be, pretending to be something that you're not."

Phillip has to put his mug down. His hands suddenly shake too much to hold it. He clenches them in his lap to hide it. "What do you mean?" he asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking too. He forces himself to look at the two women opposite him. Anne is looking back at him, puzzled by his own confusion.

"She means WD," she clarifies.

"What about him?"

"Well that he is... And he feels the need to hide it."

"You've lost me completely," Phillip admits. "What does WD hide?" Normally, Phillip might feel pleased with being able to catch Anne so unawares, to make her look so puzzled.

Lettie eventually has to step in to break the cycle of confusion. "Phillip doesn't know," she tells Anne. Then to Phillip she just says, "WD is a sub."

"What?!" It is a very good job that Phillip put his mug down. He would have dropped it now for sure.

Anne blinks at him. "Well...yes. I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew."

"H-how can he be a sub?" Phillip is aware of his voice growing too loud, even in the noise of the busy cafe. He makes an effort to lower it again. "He can't be..."

"He is," Anne confirms, still frowning in puzzlement. "He acts Dominant to protect himself, to protect me... I'm sorry, I just thought you knew."

"Phillip doesn't have much of an intuition for this sort of thing." Lettie's eyes spark with amusement. "He thought I was a Dominant, the other day."

Now it is Anne's turn to look incredulous again. "How...?"

Phillip slumps in his seat. "The same way I thought WD was too, apparently."

Lettie reaches over to pat his arm sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it. Orientation stuff is a lot more complex than people realise. You’ve just only ever been around people who fit with what society expects them to be. Or who are really good at masking how different they are.” Anne is still surveying him critically, still trying to work out how he could be so mistaken. Lettie settles back in her chair again. “It’s a good thing you’ve got the two of us to explain how the world works. Or how the circus does anyway. Ask all your orientation based questions and Auntie Anne and Auntie Lettie will answer them.”

Anne’s bemused smile turns into a smirk, and she nods.

Phillip really isn’t going to get a better opportunity than this. He picks up his mug again, with decidedly steadier hands and holds it close to himself. As barriers go it is feeble at best but it still makes him feel better. “So... WD is a submissive...” he says quietly, still half afraid of being overheard. These just aren’t the sort of questions you ask, not in public or in private. “He just acts Dominant. To protect Anne and himself.” Anne nods agreement. Phillip doesn’t bother to ask if she is a Dominant. He already knows that. He knows it deep in his bones. “Where do I start with asking?”

Lettie shrugs. “You could always just pick a member of the troupe and ask your way through. If we don’t know, or if it’s a secret or private, then we can always say so. Mostly it’s open knowledge.”

Phillip considers that for a moment before saying, surely, “Deng is Dominant.” That’s nearly as obvious as Anne being Dominant, as easy as Barnum, but it is still good to hear Lettie’s confirmation. Maybe he is not so bad at this after all.  “And Rosie is a submissive.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re... courting?”

“If you want to call it that,” says Anne. “It’s a little more than courting though, if you ask me. They would have been wed long ago if society allowed it.” Although her voice remains perfectly pleasant, a cloud of troubled emotion passes over Anne’s face. It is clear she has quite a few issues with what society allows. She is no longer looking at Phillip, is in fact looking anywhere but at him.

After letting that thought sit for a moment, Phillip continues. “Jeremy?” he asks, because that seems like as good a place to start again as any.

“Submissive,” says Anne, simply.

“I know Merryn is a submissive. What about Florence?”

“As Dominant as her sister is submissive.”

“Hmm,” says Phillip, processing this. “Does that happen often with siblings? One being a submissive, the other Dominant? Like with you and WD, too.”

 “I’d never given it much thought, actually,” admits Anne. “Maybe it’s just how nature works, to keep a good mix of both in the world.”

Phillip considers it. He supposes that would make sense. Would things have been different if he’d been one of several Carlyle children? Would it have mattered less what he was if that had been the case? It is doubtful. “Charles?” he asks to distract himself from that line of thought.

“Dominant.”

Lettie snorts. “And heaven help anyone who tries to say otherwise based on his stature.”

There is a story there, waiting to be asked about, and Phillip makes a mental note to do so later. For now, he carries on with his questioning. “Constantine? Dominant, right?”

“Switch, actually.”

Phillip frowns at Lettie. “Sorry?”

“Switch,” she says again. It is only as Phillip continues to look blank that she clarifies. “He’s neither a Dominant nor a submissive. He’s both. Depending on how he’s feeling at the time.”

“That’s even an option?” asks Phillip, his voice little more than a startled croak.

“Not really an option as such. Just like you can’t choose whether you want to be a sub or a Dom, it’s still just as much a part of who you are. Con has always been a switch. And not all that fussy about whether you’re male or female either. He always says he’ll take what he can get.”

This concept of switching is much more than just a new word to Phillip. Someone may as well have just invented a new letter to the alphabet, or told him that some people can hover off the ground as well as walk upon it. “I’m sorry if I sound surprised. I have just never heard of someone being a switch before,” he says, weakly.

“Really?” asks Anne, a devilish little smirk playing at her mouth. “What dull lives the upper classes must lead.”

Being teased by Anne does something not entirely comfortable to Phillip’s insides. It is not exactly unpleasant either. Perhaps it is that which alarms Phillip more than the actual sensation. An idea suddenly occurs to Phillip, in light of this new knowledge about switches. “What about Charity Barnum? Is she a switch?” Phillip tries not to sound too hopeful. It will change nothing, but it would make more sense.

Anne and Lettie both falter. They glance at each other as though both hoping the other will answer for them. Then Anne looks away and drinks her chocolate, and Lettie picks idly at the sleeve of her coat, drying beside the fire. “No,” she says. “No, she’s a Dominant.”

“But P.T. ... but Barnum is a Dominant.”

“Yes.” Lettie licks her bottom lip, either out of hesitation or to chase a lingering chocolate residue. “It is... a very complicated arrangement, as far as we can tell.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” Lettie sounds as confused about it all as Phillip is. “But it does work, clearly.”

“It shouldn’t work,” Phillip insists, somewhere between incredulous and stubbornly refusing to accept the truth. “That’s not me being judgmental but it just...shouldn’t work. Shouldn’t be compatible.”

“Compatible doesn’t always come into it,” murmurs Anne. “You can’t help who you fall in love with.” Air grows a little more difficult for Phillip to breathe at those words. Anne is watching a man and a woman at another table, deep in intimate conversation. Phillip is very glad that she is not watching him, is not able to see what that statement does to his nerves.

He doesn’t ask any more questions about orientations. The desire to know who is submissive and who is Dominant, questions which have pestered and plagued Phillip for so long, suddenly no longer seem so pressing. Or perhaps it is rather that Phillip realises that, no matter what answers he hears, it will get him no closer to understanding. Every time he feels as though that knowledge is within his grasp, as though the broken pieces that make up his world may finally start to align, a new fissure cracks them wide open once more.

The sudden melancholy of the moment is broken by Anne taking a loud, and what from her can only be deliberate, slurp of her chocolate and turning to face Phillip and Lettie once more. A rim of chocolate coats her upper lip like a moustache.

“Careful there,” says Lettie, after pointing this out to her friend, “You’re giving me a run for my money.”

Anne makes no move to wipe the chocolate away. “I’m only attempting to follow the latest fashion. I always thought the fake beards we sell at the circus never quite did the trick.”

Phillip watches the girls tease and jibe at each other and reminds himself that he is in London. He will soon be returning to America, and his parents, but for a little while longer, an ocean remains between them. For now he is warm, his feet have stopped hurting, and he has Lettie and Anne for company.

When the conversation lulls enough to allow it, Phillip nudges Lettie’s leg under the table to get her attention. “So, Lettie,” he says, “are you looking forward to seeing your sailor on the return voyage?”

Anne’s eyes gleam. “Sailor? What sailor is this? Lettie, why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Lettie tries to school her face into one of complete nonchalance. “Because there is nothing to tell. Phillip is just being ridiculous. He is not my sailor. He is just a sailor, whom I happened to become friends with on the way here.”

“He wanted more than friendship,” Phillip reminds her.

“Well then,” Lettie counters, airily, “it is a good job that I am a person of impeccably high morals. Or I was before I joined the circus, at any rate.”

“Weren’t we all, before we joined the circus,” mutters Anne. She may glance at Phillip as she says that, but her focus is quickly back on Lettie, and the sailor about who she is so keen to pry more information.

They stay in the cafe for the rest of the afternoon. Phillip orders them more chocolate when their first batch runs out. At some point, Anne unfolds herself, stretching out rather than curling in on herself in the chair. With the table to cover the movement, and with Phillip himself holding his breath, her foot finds his under the table and brushes against it so gently it could almost, almost, be accidental. Phillip doesn’t move away, and neither does she.

When eventually they leave the cafe to make their way back to the hotel, Phillip links arms with both women, but it is Anne who draws a little closer to him, Anne who holds his arm lightly, as though she is afraid of what too greater a touch may do to both of them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick moment to say that, a year ago I could not have pictured sitting here, writing my longest work to date, over 50k words and counting. It has been an amazing year, watching the fandom grow and I feel honored to have been a part of that, and to have made so many amazing friends along the way. Thank you all, for everything. <3


	9. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus)  
> for beta-ing.  
> Thank you everyone else for sticking around this long. <3

On the boat back to America, Rosie gets sick. Her cycle takes her badly every month, or so Deng informs a slightly mortified Phillip, who believes he should not be discussing these matters. But this month, the travel and the roiling motion of the boat combine with Rosie’s usual monthly misfortune until her small frame is nearly ripped apart by cramps, her stomach rebelling again and again as nausea develops into vomiting, into a sickness Phillip has rarely seen before. Deng remains with her that first night and through the next day. When night falls again and there is still no relief in Rosie’s symptoms, Phillip stays up to give Deng a rest. He had thought that his offer, which had none the less been sincere, would be rejected. That Rosie would prefer the company of another woman for this. But she clutches Phillip’s fingers, her own hand clammy and shaking with weakness, and insists she wants no other company.

They huddle together on deck. This is not strictly allowed after the hours of darkness, but no one sends them away. They think better of it upon seeing how ill Rosie is, or upon being fixed with a Dominant glare which Phillip has been cultivating for years.

It is bitingly cold on deck at night time but Phillip holds a nest of blankets around them both, only loosening his grip each time Rosie’s stomach lurches and she needs to lean over the side of the boat to vomit. Deng had evidently been trying to keep Rosie’s energy up, just as she had done with Phillip on the journey out. Phillip wishes she had not done so. Every time Rosie is sick, it causes Phillip’s own travel sickness, more tempered this time, to rise afresh. Dread grips him. Phillip has never thought of himself as squeamish but then he has never been around someone who is as ill as Rosie is now. Witnessing her being sick stirs memories just as acutely as when it had been Phillip himself. To distract them both in between bouts of sickness, Phillip reads aloud. The light of a single lamp flickers across the pages of a poetry book propped carefully open. The flame gutters and leaps with the rolling waves, making it hard to see, but Rosie seems to appreciate just the ebb and flow of his voice.

At around three in the morning, Rosie says her nausea seems to be fading a little. She can unfurl a little from the tight ball she has wound herself into. At four, she drifts off to sleep, half propped against Phillip. Phillip might drift too, but fitfully. He’s too exposed here to sleep properly. More than once he startles awake with the sensation of falling.

The first rays of sunlight grace the sea at the same time as the first crewmen start to stir on deck. Phillip nudges Rosie awake and then helps her to the first class lounge which Phillip’s name and money allow the troupe access to. Phillip sits as upright as his exhausted state will allow, Rosie curled up on the two chairs beside him, her head in his lap. His hand strokes absently at her hair. To all outside eyes, they are a Dominant and his submissive partner. Phillip knows this, can perceive the looks the first passengers give them when they start to filter in. He wonders if rumour will make it back to New York, that Phillip Carlyle has found himself a new, pretty girl to spend his time with, to settle with, if their intimacy is anything to judge by. He wonders if it will travel all the way back to his parents. Perhaps, if it does, it will soften any lingering rumours about potential insults directed at the queen, no matter how warmly they were received.

Rosie makes a funny little croaking noise. Phillip looks down at her, wondering if she is about to be sick again, and sees she is instead smiling, albeit very faintly. He follows her gaze. Deng is winding her way towards them through a crowd of passengers clogging up the doorway – Phillip thinks he sees her kick one or two of them to make room. Deng’s hands are full, clutching a mug in each. She greets Phillip with a polite nod, and Rosie with a much warmer smile, and hands a mug over to him, offering Rosie an arm to lean on to get her sitting up. The scent of coffee wafts up to greet Phillip. It chases away the tiredness and any lingering nausea he himself might be feeling.

“Drink it,” says Deng, without looking at him. “I got it for you.”

“Thank you,” says Phillip, earnestly. Coffee on the boat is not of the highest quality but it is a taste of luxury after the night Phillip had been a part of.

“Thank you,” Deng corrects. “For staying with her.” She hands the second mug over to Rosie who takes it, and frowns at it suspiciously, then holds it up for Phillip’s inspection. It smells nothing like coffee. The liquid is a murky green colour. A leaf tendril floats to the surface.

“It will make you feel better, and you know it,” Deng prompts, waiting for Rosie – still glaring and now grumbling under her breath – to take a sip. She does so, and shudders a little at the taste, but she keeps the mug regardless.

“Can I go back to bed?” Rosie asks, sleepily.

“Of course, my love.” Deng bends low over Rosie. Phillip thinks she might be about to kiss her girlfriend but then obviously thinks better of it when surrounded by so many strangers. “Come on,” she says instead, supporting Rosie to her feet. While Rosie gains her balance, Deng turns to Phillip once more. “Thank you, truly.”

“She’s my friend,” he reminds her. It may be the first time he has used that word to describe Rosie, to describe any of the troupe, aloud but it comes naturally. “It was nothing at all.”

“It was to her,” says Deng firmly. “She can start to drop when she’s ill like this. It helps to have a Dominant with her. One she trusts. You did a really good job.” Then, quite taking Phillip by surprise, she thrusts out one hand and shakes his. It is both an oddly formal gesture, and one Phillip knows is laced with meaning. He shakes back, as confidently as he can cope with right now.

“You’re embarrassing, Deng,” Rosie mumbles, half pushing at Deng and half leaning against her.

“You did well too,” says Deng, her voice tender, her arms now once more supporting Rosie. “My good girl. Come along then.”

Once they leave, Phillip is left sitting alone. The coffee which had seemed like lifeblood only moments ago no longer has any appeal. He is as conflicted as he ever has been. Deng trusted him with Rosie because she believed him a Dominant. That should be a good thing. All those lessons, all those years, and he finally knows it has been worth it. In a place of such wide and diverse orientations as the circus, he is still accepted as the Dominant he knows he has to be.

It is a good thing. It is, truly. Deng had thanked him as an equal and that is all he should ever aspire for in life. He should not be craving the way she looked at Rosie. He definitely should not be wishing that, just once, someone would hold him like that and tell him he has been a good boy.

Phillip’s coffee is cold long before he remembers to drink it.

* * *

The scene which greets the troupe back to America is loud and chaotic, but welcoming. The docks are heaving with people, as they always are when a ship is arriving or departing. Phillip remembers his mad dash across the port on his way to the boat and is glad to make a rather more dignified impression this time.

Hoards of friends and family are there to meet the ship’s passengers and crew. Greetings are shouted. People embrace. One woman is crying loudly while clinging to her husband. Phillip can’t see his face properly, due to the way he is hugging his wife, but he thinks it might be Lettie’s sailor. Lettie seems entirely unaffected if it is.

It is a smaller group gathered for the circus troupe, consisting mostly of just the few members who elected to stay behind. They are standing further back, away from the main throng of people, keeping themselves separate even now, but their greetings are as loud and raucous as anyone else’s. Mr. O’Malley is there too and although his welcome is more a non-committal grunt than a shout of joy, Phillip thinks he looks at least somewhat pleased to have them all back. It has been his job to keep the protestors from breaking down the door of the museum in PT’s absence.

Above it all, the shouts of the Barnum girls can be heard.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Caroline and Helen fling themselves at their father as soon as he is within reach. Charity, laughing, has to make do with reaching over their heads to embrace her husband. He kisses her firmly, deeply, not caring at all for their rather public setting. He only breaks off when Helen makes a loud vomiting noise and tugs hard on his coat.

“Dad!” she whines. “Don’t. That’s gross.”

“Oh it is, is it?” Phineas asks, nudging her. “Then I guess you don’t want a kiss too?” He stoops low to his daughter’s height and begins peppering her head and face with playful, affectionate kisses while she shrieks.

Phillip feels rather like he is intruding, as though he is pressing his face against a window in the family’s home to see a private moment taking place. He doesn’t know what to do with himself now. He supposes he should head back to his apartment.

“Phillip!” Charity steps around her husband and her daughters, narrowly avoiding tripping over Caroline’s outstretched foot as she goes onto her tiptoes, stretching to remain attached to her father.

Phillip smiles in greeting at Charity, but isn’t expecting the hug she pulls him into.

“It’s good to have you back,” she says, warmly, in a tight hold which smells like perfume and soap and powder. Her hair tickles Phillip’s cheek and he feels suddenly, achingly guilty and he doesn’t know why. He returns the hug stiffly, awkwardly, but he hopes with enough force that she knows his gratitude is genuine.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Barnum,” he says after she has released him.

The corners of Charity’s eyes crinkle as she smiles. “I don’t think there’s any need for that formality. It’s Charity, you know that.”

At this moment, Helen manages to squirm out of her father’s playful hug and instead flings herself at Phillip, ignoring Charity’s belated cry of, “Careful, Helen!”

Phillip catches her and lifts her into his arms. “And it’s a pleasure to see you again too, young Miss Barnum.”

“You don’t need to be so formal with me either!” Helen groans in a mixture of jubilation and exasperation which seems far beyond her years.

“It’s a gentleman’s duty to always be polite to a lady,” he informs her, which makes her giggle and squirm closer against his chest.

Caroline doesn’t leave her father’s side, but smiles up at Phillip almost shyly.

“And the other young Miss Barnum,” Phillip declares, as if he’s only just seen her. “Aren’t you going to give me a hug too?”

Caroline does not throw herself at Phillip as her sister did. She is too old for that, or else still possessed of this newfound shyness. Nonetheless, she steps forwards and hugs Phillip nearly as tightly.

“You know,” Phillip comments, “I can’t decide if you girls have gotten taller or prettier since the last time I saw you.”

“Definitely both,” says Barnum.

“Definitely,” Phillip agrees.

Helen squeals happily and declares Phillip has gotten more handsome, which makes everyone laugh. Caroline has gone pink to the tips of her ears and says nothing at all.

Charity looks over Phillip’s shoulder, and then casts her gaze around the docks. “Aren’t your parents here, Phillip?” she asks.

Phillip feels sobriety rush over him like icy water and places Helen back on her feet as he quickly checks the area too. “I don’t think so,” he says, glancing around and trying to not make it obvious. It would be unlikely that they would lower themselves enough to visit such a common place, but experience has told him that assuming such things is never wise.

“Didn’t they want to greet you?” asks Charity with a frown. “You’ve been gone an awfully long time.”

“I doubt they’re particularly anxious to see me,” Phillip says lightly, hoping to laugh it off. “I’ll be seeing them tonight at any rate.” It’s not that he wants to defend his parents, but he can’t stand to see Charity’s frown deepen anymore than it had at his first statement.

Charity is not to be put off, however, and asks, “So, who is here to greet you?”

Phillip is torn between saying ‘no one’ and ‘just you’. He isn’t sure which sounds more tragic.

While he is still stalling for a suitable reply, a hand taps Phillip softly on the shoulder, cutting off his need to answer. “Philippe?”

Phillip can’t stop the fond grin from spreading over his face as he turns. “Georgette!”

He has missed Georgette. He hadn’t realised quite how much until this moment. Hers is the face he has seen every day since living in his apartment. The first friend he ever had, unless he counted Ally. Phillip tends not to count Ally. It hurts too much to do so.

While he is still in a hugging mood and before he can think better of it, before he can remind himself that, friend or not, Georgette is still technically his servant, Phillip hugs Georgette. On all of the previous times they have done this, she shrieks and hits at him, reminds him between giggles of the inappropriateness of it all. On this occasion she allows it. As he does so, Phillip feels her shawl-wrapped shoulders sink in palpable relief, as though he has lifted some great weight from them. Barnum coughs pointedly behind them. They move apart swiftly, both flustered and blushing.

“PT,” says Phillip, turning back to the family who are all now looking at Georgette with polite curiosity, “this is Georgette.”

Georgette doesn’t step any closer but raises one hand and nods in tentative greeting.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Georgette,” says Barnum, looking from Phillip to her and back again, clearly searching for some further explanation.

“Georgette is my...” Phillip hesitates. He doesn’t want to say ‘my maid’. He doesn’t want to say anything which will further amplify the distance between himself and the rest of the circus. Between himself and Phineas who, as he understands it, has only just stopped having to worry about keeping a solid roof over his family’s heads. Let alone hire a maid.

In the end, Phillip says, “She’s my friend,” at exactly the same time Georgette says, “I work for him.”

“I work for him and I’m a friend,” Georgette corrects. A little colour is starting to return to her face. It is only now that Phillip realises quite how pale she had been.

“Well,” says Phillip, not quite covering the awkward silence, “I expect you’re all wanting to get home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Helen and Caroline whine at him leaving so soon and Charity, not for the first time, insists that Phillip – and now Georgette – would be welcome to join them for dinner, but Phillip says again that he will be needing to see his parents. He almost manages to make it sound like he is looking forward to it. He pacifies the girls with promises that he will see them at the grand reopening of the circus tomorrow and that he will bring their new dresses along too, and calls his goodbyes to the rest of the troupe. The others are mostly too involved with their own greetings and conversations to hear Phillip but Lettie waves to him good-naturedly and Anne calls, “Goodbye, Phillip.” Georgette nudges at Phillip when she does.

As they walk back to Phillip’s apartment, everywhere Phillip looks there are little reminders that he is back in America. It is in the accents of the people around him and the familiar buildings they pass. It is in the knot in the pit of his stomach. It is a strange combination of a relief to be home and a nagging sense of unease which he had been free of for over two months without noticing it. It is not eased at all when Georgette breaks the silence between them to say, quite softly, “Your father visited your apartment.”

“H-he did?” It is not welcome news.

“Yes. He... was impatient to know if you were back.”

“I did tell him when we were due,” Phillip sighs. He looks at Georgette and takes in once more the pallor to her skin, the tension he had felt ease only when he had held her. “How many times did he come to my apartment?”

“A few,” Georgette murmurs. “I think he... He wanted to make sure that you had not arrived early and were keeping it from him.” She holds her shawl a little tighter around herself with a shiver.

Before they cross the next street, Phillip places a hand on Georgette’s arm and steers her to one side, out of the path of the people hurrying past. “Georgette,” he says urgently, to get her to look him in the eye. When she doesn’t, he repeats her name again, a Dominant edge creeping into his tone which is not overly welcome there. She looks up at him, blinking and only then does he ask, “Did my father hurt you?”

For a moment she just looks at him and Phillip’s heart holds still in his chest. He doesn’t know what he will do if she says yes, but he is quite certain it won’t be pleasant. “No,” she says eventually. “No he didn’t hurt me. I just... I do not like him.” Georgette glances around furtively as she says this, lowering her voice to a whisper in the crowded street. Phillip has never heard her speak ill of anyone before. She seems surprised at herself for daring to say so.

“I don’t like him either,” Phillip says as they walk on. His voice is barely louder than Georgette’s.

“I know. Now I know why.”

“But, you would tell me if he hurt you?”

“Yes,” Georgette is starting to sound more like herself, fondly infuriated by Phillip. “He was not pleasant to me, but he didn’t hurt me. He barely even looked at me. Although I doubt you would tell me if he hurt you.”

“He’s my father,” Phillip says, shortly. “He’s allowed to hurt me.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” says Georgette with a sigh.

“It is,” Phillip says firmly. “It’s how it’s always worked.” He can’t start questioning this, along with everything else.

* * *

The thought of his father making another visit and finding Phillip at home is not a pleasant image in Phillip’s mind. To avoid it, he sends a message to his parents’ house, letting them know of his safe return. The response which arrives so swiftly that he knows his father had been waiting for this, summons him to the family home without even the courtesy to make it sound like a polite invitation.

The evening, which Phillip would have liked to spend in his apartment, with nothing but a nice bottle of whiskey and perhaps Georgette for company, he instead has to spend with his parents. His mother is keen to know every detail of the palace, what the queen was like, what she was wearing, who else was in attendance. It is the most animated Phillip has seen her in years and also perhaps the most pleasant conversation he has had with her. He doesn’t need to think about his answers; whatever he says will make her happy. It feels remarkably good not to have to lie, to conceal some part of himself, even if it is only when responding with vapid fuel for his mother to gloat over with her friends.

 “Now, now, Evelyn.” Phillip’s father cuts through her questioning, a nasty sneer in his voice. “The boy doesn’t want to get sucked into idle gossip.” There is a warning edge to his words, which makes both Phillip and his mother cease their discussion instantly. Phillip wonders if his mother’s mouth has gone as dry as his has. He’s never felt much pity for his mother before, and now he wonders if perhaps he should have considered this earlier.

Still, she simpers to his father’s demands, and busies herself pouring them tea, while Phillip has to submit to an entirely different line of questioning. His father doesn’t care for the dress the queen had on, or the other guests who were believed as worthy of an audience with her as Phillip. He wants only to hear every detail of Phillip’s visit, to ensure he did nothing that a respectable, dignified, Dominant Carlyle man shouldn’t.

Phillip is not stupid enough to tell his father every detail. He leaves out Charles’ interaction with the queen altogether. He also glosses over the details of their private performance, as any details about the circus are bound to inflame his father’s temper. Still, he cannot help finishing his story by saying “I believe her majesty was quite charmed. By both myself and Barnum.”

Phillip’s mother glances anxiously between them both. His father does nothing but snort derisively, as though Phillip has just told a mildly amusing joke. “That man,” he mutters darkly, “Is a charlatan and a fraud. There is nothing charming about him. I would have thought that the queen of England would have had more sense than to be taken in by him. Then again,” he says with a contemplative shrug, “she is little more than a child after all.”

“Theodore,” Phillip’s mother says, evidently scandalised to hear her husband talking about the queen of England in such a disparaging manner.  He ignores her reproach as he might ignore the buzzing of a fly.

Anger smoulders in Phillip, the urge to defend PT, to not sit here and let him be insulted in this manner is almost overwhelming. He takes several seconds to steady his nerve, and to appear to consider his father’s words. “I believe everyone there was taken in by him.” Then, he plays the last ace he has been holding to his chest. “Even Jenny Lind.”

His father frowns at him. “Jenny Lind?”

“Yes. She’s an opera si-”

“I know who she is, idiot boy,” Phillip’s father snaps. “I don’t see what she has to do with Barnum, of all people.” Theodore Carlyle spits the name Barnum as though it is a filthy insult.

Phillip knows he is skating on perilously thin ice. It is never wise to taunt his father. He takes a moment to steady himself, to check his tone.

“She was there, at the palace,” Phillip explains, as calmly and casually as he might say that he had bumped into an old acquaintance at a party. “We, that is myself and Barnum, met her. We spoke with her.”

“Oh Phillip! You didn’t say!” Phillip’s mother chastises him as though he has been hoarding a large amount of chocolates to himself. “Is she really as pretty as everyone says? Wh-” She cuts off at a single look from Phillip’s father.

He turns back to Phillip slowly, considering the impact of his son’s words. “What did you talk to her about? What would she have to discuss with either of you?”

“She is to come to America at Barnum’s invitation. He’s going to arrange for her to perform here, in New York.” It is not strictly true. They are in fact still waiting for Miss Lind’s response and if it’s a rejection now, the ice beneath Phillip may well and truly crack.

For a long moment, Phillip’s father just stares at him. It’s not often that Phillip has seen him without words. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says at last. “Why would she take up the invitation of Barnum, of all people?”

“He charmed her,” Phillip admits. “Promised to make her the biggest star on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“If she believed that then she is a fool, too.”

“Maybe so. But she is still Jenny Lind and she will be performing in New York at a concert partly thanks to the influence of the Carlyle family.”

That pleases both of Phillip’s parents as much as he knew it would. His mother will be the focus of all of her friends’ attentions, his father’s status will be boosted. He has managed to pull the chains of his freedom further than he has ever done before.

It doesn’t take very long for his father to yank him right back again, of course. Before Phillip leaves, his father informs him that they will be hosting a dinner party that weekend. Phillip has no doubt that his attendance at said dinner party is far from optional. He will no doubt be its focal point. A pretence of proud parents, just so they can lord over everyone else that their son was granted an audience with the queen.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to attend,” he tries regardless. “Maybe next time...”

“You’ll be there this time,” his father informs him, looking savagely at Phillip. “What other engagement could you possibly have?”

Phillip realises the corner he has backed himself into but he has no alternative. “The circus,” he says, quietly. “It’s the reopening show this weekend.”

“And?” his father asks, sneering. “How does that concern you? Or are you performing on stage beside those freaks now too?” He laughs shortly, clearly thinking he has just made an amusing joke.

Phillip does not join in the laughter. He knows there would not be anything funny about it if it were true, and his father found out. “No,” he says, his already quiet voice little more than a mumble at this point. “But they need me there...they’re expecting me. I need...”

Phillip doesn’t get to say that he needs to be there, to be a part of the show offstage as much as the performers on it. It’s probably a good thing, because his father’s eyes flash with anger which steals the words from Phillip’s mouth. His mother looks franticly between them and makes an offer to pour more tea which neither of them responds to.

Phillip may have just skated right off of the ice and over a ravine.

“Not getting too attached now are we, Phillip?” Phillip’s father asks with a now entirely humourless smirk. “Starting to think of them as friends?”

There is no ‘starting to’ about it. But admitting it, giving his father any indication that there is truth in his words would be akin to suicide. So instead Phillip looks away from his father’s gaze, frowning. “Of course not,” he says quickly, an irritated edge to his voice.

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Glass shards and razorblades in every syllable his father speaks.

“I’m not,” Phillip says, struggling with the force of the twists he is being forced into making, the betrayals he is about to speak. “It is just, of course I am not friends with... with them. They just... expect me to be there, that is all.”

Phillip doesn’t need to be looking at his father to know the way his lip will be curling. Like a wolf getting ready to snarl. “Well then. You will have to prove them wrong in their expectations, won’t you?”

And really, what can Phillip do but agree?

* * *

So on Saturday night, when the rest of the troupe are getting ready for the show, Phillip is in the office he shares with Barnum, trying without much success to fasten his tie. He’s never been particularly good at this even with the practice of a thousand parties behind him. He doesn’t like the way it constricts his throat and, try as he might, he can’t get his fingers to cooperate tonight. The door to the office is shut but it doesn’t filter out the sounds of the others getting ready for the show. Blasts of music and singing reach Phillip as people warm up their vocal chords. The familiar thumps and bangs of props being placed in starting positions. He can hear Anne and W.D. calling to one another, Anne up in the rafters, positioning ropes correctly, W.D. on the ground below. Phillip would give away a great many of his personal possessions if it meant he could stay here tonight.

The others are surprisingly understanding about Phillip not being present for their first show in months. Admittedly, when he had first announced his absence there had been grumblings. Anne had frowned at him so severely it made his heart leap a little and Charles had, only half jokingly, asked what engagement Phillip could possibly have that was more important than this. At the mention of a dinner party with his parents, Phillip had expected jeering. Instead everyone, even Charles, had shut up about it. There was some unspoken agreement regarding Phillip’s parents. Ever since that morning when they had seen the bruise on his face.  Anne’s scowl had turned sad, rather than angry, and that didn’t make Phillip feel any better.

With a frustrated sigh, Phillip gives up his most recent attempt with the tie and pauses. He can already feel a headache forming. And a stomach ache. The usual pre-symptoms of having to spend any extended amount of time with his parents.  Phillip wants to lean forwards, to press his head against the coolness of the glass, but his hair is perfectly styled as ever and there is little sense in messing with it just for his own comfort.

There’s a knock at the door behind Phillip. Without turning, Phillip watches the reflection of the office door opening and PT leaning around.

“Knock knock,” he says with a grin. “A carriage awaits for you, m’lady.” His gaze sweeps the length of Phillip’s body, still grinning, then flickers to the reflection and sees Phillip’s expression. His own expression falters a little. “Is something wrong?” he steps into the office properly and pushes the door to a near close behind him.

“I’m fine,” Phillip sighs, turning to face Barnum properly. “This tie isn’t.” He gestures at the material hanging limply around his neck.

“Need a hand?” offers Barnum and because he’s already had six failed attempts himself, Phillip shrugs and gestures towards the tie again to say ‘do your best’.

Barnum saunters towards him. Really, the man saunters everywhere. It is just part of how he walks, the casual lope, the assuredness that he is the most interesting person in the room at any given time. It is his eyes which give away uncertainty, doubt, a trace of not belonging.

Not that Phillip has spent a great deal of time looking at Barnum’s eyes. He reminds himself of that fact as Barnum approaches him. Phillip raises his chin a little, giving Barnum direct access to his tie. It also gives access to his throat, to the quickening pulse of blood at the side of his neck, and the pale skin which covers it. Phillip swallows, aware of Barnum watching the movement.

All Barnum does is gently squeeze Phillip’s shoulder, steering him back around to face the mirror once more.

“What are you doing?” asks Phillip, as Barnum steps behind him, his chest close up against Phillip’s back.

“I find it easier to tie a tie on myself,” says Barnum, as though this explains it. His arms wrap around Phillip’s shoulders, hands at the material around Phillip’s neck. “It is other types of knot I am more experienced in exhibiting on other people.”

Phillip’s pulse leaps. He wonders if PT can feel it dancing beneath his hands. Surely they do not need to linger so long against his flesh.

“Chin up, please.” Barnum briefly releases the tie with one hand, guiding Phillip’s chin back up, his face forwards. A moment or two later and Barnum settles both hands on Phillip’s shoulders. “There,” he declares. “Much better.”

Phillip looks at himself in the mirror. His tie is now perfectly straight. His hair is still impeccably unruffled. His face is flushed, and Barnum is watching him, still looking over Phillip’s shoulder.

“You look good,” comments Barnum. “The perfect upper-class gentleman.” His tone remains light, not even a hint of darker teasing there. He already startled Phillip once tonight, clearly he knows he needs to tread carefully to keep him from rebuilding the carefully bricked walls the circus has been working to dismantle for so long.

“Thanks,” Phillip murmurs.

“It might not be so bad, once you get there,” comments Barnum, trying to coax the lingering melancholy from Phillip’s face.

“It might not,” Phillip agrees, quietly and without much confidence. He should speak up louder. He has nothing to feel uncertain of. He is a Dominant, as every bit worthy in this room as PT. With that thought in mind he steps to the side, away from Barnum’s lingering touch. He collects his coat from the back of his chair, his hat from the hook by the door. “I’d still rather be here.”

“You could always stop by here afterwards, if there’s time.”

“Yeah, if there’s time.” Phillip knows the reality is that his parents will be sure to keep him at the house for as long as is needed to stop him from doing that very thing. If he acts like he is keen to leave, there will be questions asked, an already awkward evening made more uncomfortable still. He will have to endure this evening without comment, and return to the circus tomorrow. “I’d better go,” he says, “if the cab is waiting.”

“It is.” Barnum is still looking at Phillip, his eyes flickering as he takes in the every detail of Phillip’s perfectly polished and preened outfit. “You really do look good tonight,” he says at last.

Unable to think of a response to that, Phillip just nods and leaves the office rather quickly. It is at least an opinion shared by the other members of the troupe, judging from the catcalls that follow him through the circus. Charles wolf whistling is the last thing Phillip hears before he slams the back door shut behind him.

* * *

The evening is both just as Phillip feared, and not as bad as it could have been. His parents have invited a number of exclusive, renowned guests, with the sole intention of boasting about their son, who has been to see the queen and whom will soon also be responsible for Jenny Lind coming to America. Phillip has to repeat again and again the many boring details of his audience with the queen. Yes, he did make Miss Lind’s acquaintance and yes, there is to be a performance in New York and yes, of course, Mrs Winthrop, your name will be at the top of the guest list.

The upside of being the fawned over pet at the centre of proceedings is, his parents have to treat him as such. They can’t belittle him, can’t talk down to him. His father is as kind to Phillip as he ever is (which is to say, he treats Phillip with a reserved indifference and continues to watch him closely, but he is not blatantly cruel to him).

As Phillip is leaving, far too late into the night to visit the circus, he just hopes that Miss Lind will indeed be responding positively to the invitation Barnum had extended to her. When they parted company, she had certainly appeared to be won over.

If she decides to decline now, he will have just made a fantastic liar out of both himself and his parents.  The first will make him a fool, and an even bigger and more scandalous talking point than he already is. The latter will likely ruin him.

Nothing to be done either way. He just has to wait now, and see if she says yes.

* * *

Miss Lind’s response, when it does arrive a week later, is simple and to the point.

_Mr Barnum,_

_Having considered your gracious offer to organise a concert in my honour in New York, I have decided that I would be foolish not to accept. I look forward to seeing you once more._

_Enclosed, please find details for my journey to America. I trust this will give you enough time to make the necessary arrangements._

_Yours, Jenny Lind_

There is a mark at the bottom of the paper, beneath her elegant, loopy signature, as though she may have marked a kiss there and then blotted it out with a careful drip of ink. It could, of course, just be a blemish from a leaky pen. But Miss Lind does not seem the type to own something as defective as a leaky pen.

Barnum does kiss the letter when he reads it, a loud and ridiculous kiss, making a big show of it. It is not a romantic gesture, but rather how a gambler may kiss his winnings after making his fortune at long last.

Phillip does not share his friend’s enthusiasm but he feels a great, swooping sense of relief at not having disappointed his parents yet again.

* * *

Barnum checks his watch for the hundredth time. “She should be here soon,” he says. He is grinning broadly, but it is not enough to hide his anxiety, the way he shifts from foot to foot, fiddles with his watch, and removes Miss Lind’s letter from his coat’s inner pocket several times to re-read the details of her journey. “She chose a ship that would arrive early, so as not to be met with a crowd. Sensible woman, don’t you think, Phillip?”

All Phillip thinks at this moment, is how cold he is, and how he wishes he had slept better the night before. He yawns now, and then cups his fingers close to his mouth to breathe on them. He is shifting as much as Barnum is, but it is to stave off the early morning chill in his case. He doesn’t even know why he is here, other than that Barnum had asked him to come.

“It wouldn’t be proper, Phillip,” Barnum had insisted. “A young woman of Miss Lind’s standing being met by me alone. Surely you know that!”

Phillip agreed but he had asked Barnum when he’d become an expert on the morals and virtues of the upper classes.

“All the time I spend with you, my dear Phillip,” had been Barnum’s response and Phillip hadn’t been able to think of anything witty to say in response.

So here he was, in the half light of just before sunrise, waiting for Miss Lind’s ship to arrive and wishing he had worn a thicker coat.

“You’re shivering,” PT comments, the cold air obviously not affecting him. He spent years living on the streets, Phillip reminds himself. This is probably mild to him.

“I’m fine,” Phillip insists, attempting to tense his muscles and stop himself from doing anything so pathetic as shivering.

“You were shivering.”

“I’m fine,” Phillip repeats.

““You’re cold. It is cold.” PT starts unfastening his own coat. “Here, take this.”

“No!” Phillip steps back firmly. He keeps his hands close to his chest and refuses to make any movement towards the coat PT is still working undone. “I don’t need it, I’ve already got a coat.”

“Then take this one too.”

“Then you’ll be cold!”

“I don’t feel it. It’s fine.”

“You do feel it. PT, stop it, I’m not taking your coat away from you.”

“Then share it with me instead.” Before Phillip can stop him, before he even knows what’s happening, PT steps forwards and grabs Phillip’s wrist. With another quick, strong movement, he’s pulled Phillip to him, pressed against his body. He holds both Phillip’s wrists with one hand, keeping them close to his chest, while he closes the coat around them and holds it shut with his other hand.

Phillip is too startled, too taken off balance by the action to do anything to stop it. One moment he is standing back from Barnum, arguing about the coat. The next, he is within inches of the other man, breathing in his scent and able to feel the steady beat of his heart beneath frozen fingers. Barnum’s own hand is surprisingly warm as it cups Phillip’s. Phillip breathes in deeply, to control his nerves or his temper or both, lets it out slowly, and looks up at PT. This close, Phillip has to crane his head upwards to be able to see Barnum’s face.

The taller man is looking down at him with a faint, pale imitation of his usual smirk. “Is this okay?” he asks, gently.

Phillip wants to reply that of course this isn’t okay, this is ridiculous. He’s a grown man and doesn’t need this kind of mollycoddling reserved for children. (Children and submissives, his brain reminds him. Phillip tells his brain to shut up. He knows that.)

He should fight Barnum off. Should maybe even hit him for this impropriety. But Phillip doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to move away. Doesn’t want to go back to feeling the cold on his hands. What Phillip would really, truly like to do is to lean closer still. He would like to rest his head against PT’s chest, and listen to the heartbeat he can currently only feel.

“I’m making you cold now,” he says instead, a feeble attempt at a protest.

“I said I don’t feel cold.”

“People will stare.” Phillip looks around at his own words, as though a hundred spectators may have just appeared with the sole interest of watching him and PT interact.

“No one’s around to stare, Phillip,” PT tells him, softly. It is true. The unearthly hour means that the only people around are those working on the docks and they’re too busy to stop and consider how closely two men are standing. Anyway, it’s too dark for anyone to see clearly.

So, Phillip permits it. It is not worth the effort to go against it. PT is as hard to fight as the ocean tide, when he gets an idea into his head. For a while the two men stay connected, and the feeling returns to Phillip’s fingers.

A ship’s horn sounds in the distance.

Phineas doesn’t drop Phillip’s hands but rather he releases them slowly, still looking at Phillip. The moment expands, carries on for longer than Phillip thought it would before Phineas turns from him to again check his watch, and Miss Lind’s letter.

“That’s her ship!” he announces, joyfully.

Phillip sticks his hands into his pockets to stop them from getting cold again.

* * *

Phillip has never seen Phineas as nervous as he is backstage at the concert hall, waiting for Jenny to take to the stage.

“You need to stop pacing,” Phillip tells him as they wait behind the curtains. “This stage has seen hundreds of performers walk across it but at the rate you’re going, you’ll wear the boards right through.”

Phineas does stop pacing, but he doesn’t respond to Phillip’s joke. Instead he goes to the curtains once more and lifts the edge just wide enough to peer out.

“And stop doing that!” Phillip hisses, the playwright in him dying a little at Phineas’ lack of professionalism. “Someone will see you.”

Someone had seen Phineas when he had done the exact same thing half an hour ago. Luckily the theatre had been nearly empty and it had been his own daughters who had spotted him. Phineas had stopped short of waving but had given them a confident, winning sort of smile.

It was more than he could manage right now.

Phillip shakes his head incredulously. “You’re never like this. All those shows at the museum and you never get so much as a sniff of pre-show nerves. You’re not even the one performing tonight.”

“That’s exactly why I am worried,” Phineas grumbles. “There’s rather a lot more riding on tonight than there is on our usual performances.”

There is something a little too dismissive in Phineas’ tone as he says that. Phillip has never heard him talk about the circus as though it is anything other than the most important, the biggest and the best show on earth. Phillip lets it slide. Puts it down to nerves.

“Will you come away from there? It’s unprofessional,” he implores yet again as Phineas continues to peer around the curtains. Phillip glances around. Everyone else is occupied. A small crowd of people surround Miss Lind, touching up her hair, her makeup, her clothing. Miss Lind herself sips water demurely, her eyes closed as she tries to focus herself. If she’s nervous, that’s the only sign of it.

With no one paying them the slightest bit of attention, Phillip grabs the back of Phineas’ jacket and tugs at it. Phineas bats him away. Phillip tugs again, a little harder this time, and, when Phineas tries to brush him away again, ducks under the other man’s arm. It turns into a series of shoves and scuffles. Childish roughhousing in the most renowned theatre in the city.

This is precisely the sort of situation Phillip would usually avoid at all costs. It is undignified, completely beneath a man of his class. It is completely below a Dominant altogether. He can hear the vicious growl in his head telling him so. Just this once, however, Phillip ignores that growl, goes with the quieter part of his brain that tells him this is what he wants to do. It would normally make his heart jump, his brain shut down. And it does, just not entirely in the way Phillip expects.

It has the desired effect in that Phineas has to leave the gap in the curtain in order to fend Phillip off. There is the added bonus that Phineas smiles properly for the first time all evening. Far too fleeting, but still there.

PT’s hands catch hold of Phillip’s arms and force them back to his sides. “Now who’s being unprofessional?” he asks, vague amusement seeping through the worry.

Maybe it is the tone of voice, or the way Phineas squeezes Phillip’s wrists – firm but gentle pressure that pins them to Phillip’s body – but Phillip freezes. He is aware for the first time in minutes of what he is doing, and where he is doing it. He looks over his shoulder to check that everyone’s attention is still firmly placed elsewhere. It is, but the moment is broken. Phineas is back at the curtain again before Phillip can fully untangle his thoughts from the jumbled mess inside his brain.

* * *

The earlier surge of bravery lingers. It is that which leads Phillip to leave Phineas alone backstage. That, and the reaction Phillip has to a single word.

‘Visible.’

People always describe anger as fire, as heat and flames. The anger Phillip feels at a single word bypasses all of that, and goes straight to an arctic cold that settles in the pit of Phillip’s stomach, chilling his bones from inside out.

He repeats it, sure he must have misheard.

Phineas’ response lets him know he heard perfectly.

It does not feel like a slap, or a punch. It bypasses the impact of a physical blow. It is as though Phineas has reached a hand down Phillip’s throat to grip at his insides.

Phineas is not aware of this. He does not even seem aware that what he said could possibly hold any significance or power. He is distracted, nervous.

That still does not excuse it.

Phillip would like to ignore Phineas’ wishes, to march the entire troupe right into the most visible seats in the house, right onto the stage if possible. But Barnum’s reaction, the scene that would follow... Previously, he would have thought that the other man would have found that a tremendous joke but he has just proven that Phillip truly doesn’t know how he will react.

So it is cowardice that makes Phillip obey Barnum’s instruction. It is bravery that makes him go to stand with the troupe, rather than Barnum.

When Phillip sees Anne, he feels braver still. She really does look especially beautiful tonight. She stands tall and elegant and graceful, as though there is nothing at all shameful about having to stand at the back of the theatre. The whole troupe have taken the news of their seating arrangements – or lack thereof – as though they expected nothing less. But Anne in particular... she stands like a queen.

She does not look at Phillip as he takes the place beside her, but she tilts her chin just a little higher, a barely perceptible shift of muscles. Phillip’s presence emboldening her still further, as much as her presence emboldens Phillip.

He does not want to still be thinking about Barnum, to still be dwelling on his words. He certainly does not still want to be dwelling on the way Barnum held his wrists, and how that firm, grounding pressure had felt so pleasant, so right.

But then Miss Lind begins to sing, and thoughts of Barnum are for once chased right out of Phillip’s brain. Her voice has filled a thousand concert halls, venues, theatres and every loop and swirl of Phillip’s mind. There is no doubt about her talent. Her passion and dedication are present in every note she sings and in the very way she places herself upon the stage. But it is the words themselves, the meaning, that has altered Phillip’s consciousness. It feels like a personal whisper, a message directly to him. Something has been pushing him to boldness all evening. Now her words give him the final incentive.

In the darkness, he reaches for Anne’s hand. She still does not look at him, but Phillip hears the way her breath hitches for just a moment and it makes him pause. If he has misread this, if she does not want... but then she is reaching for him too. More than that, she takes charge of this small, simple action. She shifts their grip, lacing their fingers together so that hers is on top. Phillip lets her. He lets her do more than that, lets her hold their joined hands close to her body and Phillip has to stand closer too because of it.

Every interaction between them for months has been leading to this.

A very distant part of Phillip’s brain reminds him, she is a Dominant. She will wish to Dominate you.

Anne scrapes her nails over the palm of Phillip’s hand. The first time it is a quick, experimental caress. The second is harder, unmistakable.

Let her.

Phillip squeezes her fingers, hopes that is enough to tell her his choice has been made.

Those nails press harder. It does not truly hurt but it stings enough for Phillip to be aware of it. It will leave a mark, crescent moon indents in the palm of Phillip’s hand. A mark of ownership, possession.

Anne starts to turn her wrist, reeling Phillip closer still. She has found a boundary she is willing to test. Another movement and she could have Phillip kneeling at her side. Perhaps that is her ultimate goal and perhaps Phillip is okay with that. It would not be such an inappropriate gesture. Subs sometimes do kneel at their Dominant’s feet. It is dark, and PT has ensured that they are far from visible here. Besides, everyone’s eyes are focussed on Miss Lind.

No.

Not everyone’s eyes are focussed on Miss Lind.

A whisper amongst the otherwise entranced audience catches Phillip’s attention. The arctic cold inside of Phillip, which had been thawing since he had taken his place among the troupe, assails him again with a vengeance. His parents are looking at him and Anne. His father is looking at him and Anne.

Phillip whips his hand back, as though Anne’s grip has suddenly become the jaws of a venomous snake. Her answering intake of breath is an alarmed, shuddering hiss. Phillip cannot look at her, cannot see what damage he has done. So he doesn’t see her leave. He feels it instead. The brush of her dress against his arm. The aching gap she leaves beside him, taking her warmth with her.

 


End file.
